


In Duty

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Patrician & Clerk [1]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Age Difference, Ankh-Morpork, Assassination Attempt(s), Biting, Canon-Typical Violence, Celibacy, Character Study, Complicated Relationships, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Ethics, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Knifeplay, M/M, Marks, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Games, Plot, Politics, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Secretaries, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-11 21:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 83,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17454947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Lord Vetinari, in need of a new personal secretary, has made his careful selection long before the man comes, as summoned, to the Palace to meet him.Training in a new secretary will hopefully not be as arduous a task as one might expect.





	1. The Appointment

**Author's Note:**

> For the footnote hyperlinks to work correctly, this work should be read chapter by chapter, as opposed to as a whole work.

**_Do your duty and leave the rest to the gods._ **

**Pierre Corneille**

It is raining rather hard as Drumknott approaches the palace gates, and he clutches his case rather tightly against his chest, squinting up at the rather grim silhouette of the palace as he makes his approach. Against the grey skies of Ankh-Morpork, the white walls of the Patrician’s Palace seem rather white, although he can see the water rushing down the tortured drainpipes and running over the cobbles as he moves to the entryway, stepping nimbly beneath the porch and hurriedly shaking off the moisture from his umbrella.

“Excuse me,” he says quietly to a guard as he comes to the door, having already been allowed in at the gates. “My name is—”

Silently, the guard pushes the door open, and Drumknott falters. He has the rather stout expression of one who is not going to say anything, regardless of what might be said to him first, and Drumknott has the dignity not to sigh, at least, but steps neatly past him and into the warm, well-lit corridor of the entry hall.

A middle-aged woman wearing red-rimmed spectacles silently gestures, with one sharp, red-painted finger, for him to follow her, and he hurries along in her wake as she leads him up the stairs. He has never entered the Patrician’s Palace before, and he cannot help his own curiosity as he glances at the various portraits on the floors, which have rather foreboding expressions on their oil-painted expressions.

His heart is pounding so fast in his chest that he can barely stand it, and his mouth is dry.

“Mr Drumknott, my lord,” says the middle-aged woman as she pushes open a rather ornate door, and when Drumknott hesitates, she shoves him in the lower back, making him stumble into the room.

“Now, now, Ms Winterbottom,” says the man who is standing at the window, his back to the office, in a low voice. “We needn’t be so rough with our guest. Would you be so kind as to bring Mr Drumknott and I some tea?”

“Of course, my lord,” Ms Winterbottom says, and she brings the door shut behind her with a sound almost loud enough to constitute a slam: Drumknott manages not to flinch, and he very slowly lowers his briefcase from his chest, aware that it looks as if he is trying to use it as a shield when he clutches it so.

The dismal day outside is nonetheless the primary source of light in the office, and the figure against the window – square-shouldered, tall, thin, and dressed all in black – is made impossible to examine in his full detail.

The figure: the Patrician. _Lord Havelock Vetinari_.

Drumknott allows his gaze to flit about the room, the famed Oblong Office. They are high up in one of the towers of the palace, but the view outside is not currently to Drumknott’s considerations. He is more interested in the books on the shelves – philosophy texts, books about society and politics, about history, primarily in Uberwaldian and Quirmian, and less so in Morporkian; he sees the desk, which is neatly kept and with no paper out of place, with a single file in the centre neatly marked with **RUFUS DRUMKNOTT** ; he sees some of the art on the walls, one particular foreboding landscape of the Sto Plains…

“It is customary,” Lord Vetinari says, after a short pause, “to greet an individual when you meet him.”

_It is equally customary_ , Drumknott could reply, _to turn about to face him_.

Of course, this is Lord Havelock Vetinari, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, a graduate of the Assassins’ Guild, the _tyrant_ …

“Of course, my lord, my apologies,” Drumknott says slowly. “Good morning.”

“ _Is_ it?” Lord Vetinari asks, seeming genuinely surprised by the statement. “It seems rather dismal to me.”

“Indeed so, my lord,” Drumknott says. “Good morning, nonetheless, is as customary a greeting as it gets.”

Very slowly, Lord Vetinari turns to look at him: he moves with such a serpentine grace one could almost imagine him placed upon a rotating plate, as for a wedding cake, the movement impossibly smooth. Drumknott has never seen Lord Vetinari before – he believes, once or twice, that he has seen small portraits of the man in the halls of the library at the Unseen University[1], but never has he looked at them very closely. Now, met with the figure cut by the man, he is surprised by his youth.

It is not to be said, of course, that Vetinari is an especially young man – his severe features, the hard cut of his jaw and chin, the deep-set shadow of his eyes, the prominence of his nose, each lead to a face that would look extremely well on a bust, and on a man, are somewhat too well-chiselled to be comforting, but are more appropriate on a man of his years – late forties or early fifties – than perhaps they would be on a young man. The very concept of a Vetinari any younger than this somewhat boggles the mind, and his eyes rather imply this is for the best.

Indeed, Vetinari has a dark-eyed stare that could sink a thousand ships, and the extremity of his features is only furthered by his neatly-groomed goatee, which squarely silhouettes his thin, pale lips and follows the square line of his chin. Lord Vetinari’s hair is very black, although the beginnings of grey is showing through at his temples, and the hair is impeccably groomed and combed.

Drumknott does not allow the polite neutrality of his expression to falter, although he feels a new thrill of fear as he wonders if his light wit has overstepped the bounds of this conversation, if he is to be executed in the coming moments… If that is so, that is so.

“How old are you, Mr Drumknott?”

“Twenty, sir.”

“Do not lie to me, young man,” Vetinari says cleanly, his voice rumbling in its sudden scold, and Drumknott hesitates for a moment, his grip tightening on his briefcase.

“My apologies, my lord,” Drumknott murmurs, his growing embarrassment climbing up his spine and making itself known, rather vividly, in the flush of his cheeks. “I am very nearly twenty: I shall be twenty on the sixth of Ember.”

“And that occasion, unhappily, is some eight days away,” Vetinari says. “Is it not?”

“It is, my lord.”

“Then you are not _very nearly_ anything. You are, in fact…?”

“Nineteen, my lord, but—”

“ _Thank_ you.”

“My lord, I—”

“Did I ask you for an explanation?” Lord Vetinari asks.

“No, my lord, but I merely—”

“And what will this explanation of your casual deception add to our conversation?”

“Dec— There is no _deception_ , my lord, merely—”

“Merely, merely,” Lord Vetinari repeats, arching a singular eyebrow. “Are you in the habit of speaking out of turn with your superiors at the Guild of Clerks and Secretaries?”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott says, somewhat defeatedly.

“Is it merely with civic leaders, perhaps, that you indulge these proclivities?”

“Perhaps, my lord. I have not before had the opportunity.”

Vetinari’s dark brows, which are very angular and rather expressive, furrow tightly, and he takes a step forward. Drumknott is able, now, to get a good look at the dark robe he wears, a sort of cassock that gives off the air of being rather dusty, and yet, even looking closely, one cannot see a single speck of dust.

He moves closer until he and Drumknott are directly across from one another, their feet in parallel to one another on the floor: Drumknott in sensible shoes not sensible enough for the lashing rain outside, Vetinari in dark leather boots that are so spotlessly clean Drumknott can see his flushed face in their reflection.

Lord Vetinari is somewhat taller than Drumknott, as Drumknott is a rather short man, and like this, with Vetinari staring _down_ at him, Drumknott supposes he ought, on some level, feel physically intimidated. Certainly, he is aware that the Patrician is a trained assassin, that he could kill Drumknott with little more than a look, but if that is the case, it hardly matters how close the Patrician gets to him – he could just as easily kill Drumknott like this, face-to-face[2], as he could from across the room, or the other side of the palace.

“It occurs to me, young man,” Lord Vetinari says very softly, so softly Drumknott likely could hear him were he not so close, “that you are speaking somewhat incautiously for one faced with the _infamously_ cruel tyrant of Ankh-Morpork.”

“I do not mean to be incautious, my lord,” Drumknott says, gritting his teeth to stifle the yawn that almost ekes out of his mouth. “My apologies.”

Vetinari waits, patiently. Drumknott keeps his gaze on his lordship’s expression.

After some time, Vetinari says, “No explanation, Mr Drumknott?”

“My previous attempts at explanation were met with complaint, my lord.”

“Aren’t you frightened of me?” Vetinari’s tone is not demanding, or angry. In fact, his head tilted just slightly to the side, Vetinari’s tone reveals only a general curiosity, as if there is something in Drumknott he finds puzzling.

“Yes, my lord, I think so,” Drumknott says.

“And yet, it doesn’t show in your face. You do not flinch, you do not cower away from me, you do not beg for your life. Why is that, I wonder?” Vetinari leans in just a little further, so that they’re almost nose to nose, looking into one another’s eyes, and for a fleeting second, Drumknott considers the silly rumours in the city as to Lord Vetinari being a vampire.

His mouth is as dry ever, and he can feel his heart all but pounding on the inside of his rib cage, but no, he is not making a fuss, or fidgeting. That would be improper. “Without meaning to be impolite, my lord,” Drumknott says, in a measured tone, “it seems to me that if you have called me here to execute me, you will do so whether I make some scene or not.” He cannot help the wrinkle of his nose as he says it – such an _undignified_ display would that be, too. “And if you have called me here for some other purpose, as I have heard you to be a practical man, it seems to me that it is probably for the best that I merely listen to what it is you need to be do, and perform my duties as instructed.”

“Why?” Vetinari asks.

The question hangs between them, ringing in the air like the lingering peal of a church bell.

“Why?” Drumknott repeats.

“Why must you perform your duties as instructed?” Vetinari asks, simply, as if it is a normal question to ask. “Because I may kill you if you don’t?”

Drumknott frowns. “Why, no, my lord. I’m a clerk: my duty is to serve the city, to serve Ankh-Morpork. Serving you _is_ serving Ankh-Morpork.”

Very slowly, Lord Vetinari’s smile spreads over his face, and Drumknott stares at the shift of his thin lips as they do so, his dark eyes _glittering_. “You know, Drumknott,” he says, “it seems to _me_ that you are a very sensible young man.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Lord Vetinari turns neatly on his heel, moving to sink down into the chair behind his desk, and opening the file with Drumknott’s name on it. Drumknott stays where he is his back straight, his briefcase at his side, and he watches the Patrician as his icy gaze (his eyes are a dark, steely colour that is more grey than blue) flits over the lines of neatly printed text in the file, too small for Drumknott to read, and then he glances up, as if realizing for the first time that Drumknott is still standing. Of course he is still standing: it would have been impolite for him to seat himself without an invitation, and yet Vetinari, it seems to him, is trying to measure out where he might make a severe breach of etiquette, beyond an overuse of wit in conversation.

And truly, Drumknott doesn’t really _mean_ to be overtly cheeky in his speech: he is merely tired, and not as able for diplomacy as he ordinarily might be.

“Please, Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari says warmly, gesturing to the chair across from his desk with a slender, long-fingered hand. “Sit.”

Drumknott hesitates, moving to remove his coat first, that he not get the chair damp, but before he can ask where he might deposit it, the door opens behind him and Ms Winterbottom comes in, setting the tray on the table beside the desk and immediately walking out again without another word, snatching his coat and bag as she does so.

For a moment, he stands stricken in the middle of the room, deprived of his coat and satchel as he watches the door – again, almost _slamming_ as it does so – close shut. Frowning slightly, he moves to sink into the chair.

“You disapprove of Ms Winterbottom’s conduct?” Vetinari asks, his gaze once more upon the file in front of him. Drumknott is _aching_ to try to read it – he can easily read upside down, even in other languages or scripts – but he forces his chin to remain high, his gaze on Vetinari instead of on his file.

“I couldn’t say, sir,” Drumknott says.

“You were born on Whistler Street in Dimwell.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Born to Jasper Drumknott and Miriam Drumknott, née Mallowmint, both now sadly deceased.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And one sister, Wendy, now married to Hamish Kinder. They inherited the Drumknott Green Grocers, and have one son… Rodney.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He is supposed to be anxious, he supposes. That is the purpose of this careful, line-by-line interrogation, as if any of this information is particularly hard to come by, as if it ought frighten him particularly. Unless Lord Vetinari _would_ hurt Wendy or Rodney or Hamish, but he doesn’t think that he would.

He has heard _rumours_ , of course, of the Patrician’s proclivities: he has heard tell of all manner of murders and strange disappearances, horrible tortures, but he has never heard of the Patrician killing someone’s family. The rumours might scatter about, but it’s never someone people can _name_ , who they actually _know_. Drumknott merely wishes it were possible to have something on paper, something one could actually _trust_ instead of the nonsense on Ankh-Morpork’s rumour mill…

“Am I correct, Mr Drumknott, in surmising you currently lack a continuous position?”

“Yes, my lord,” Drumknott says quietly. “I’ve been working on odd jobs for the guild, here and there. I’ve been somewhat unlucky in applications since the match factory burned down.”

“Yes,” Vetinari muses, “who could have predicted that awful fire?” After a moment’s pause, he asks, “Did you know Lupine Wonse?” The Patrician’s personal secretary, from what Drumknott has thought before, but he has now been killed. One of the Watchmen did it, apparently, quite by accident: such is the general happenstance, with the City Watch.

“Yes, my lord, I believe I met him once, at a party,” Drumknott says. He hadn’t especially liked the man.

“Do you _like_ parties, Drumknott?” Vetinari asks, arching one expectant eyebrow: here, Drumknott supposes, the truth is most appropriate.

“No, my lord,” Drumknott answers. “Not especially.”

“Well,” Lord Vetinary says, neatly closing the file and steepling his fingers neatly in front of him, resting his chin delicately upon the knuckles of his hands. He looks at Drumknott, his grey eyes not flitting away from him. “The starting salary is fifty-five dollars per month, with room and board provided.”

That’s an awful lot of money. A great deal more money than any position Drumknott has even applied for, let alone—

Drumknott leans back slightly in his seat, peering at Lord Vetinari for a long moment. “Won’t I need to be vetted first?”

“You’ve been vetted,” Vetinari says.

Drumknott considers this for a moment.

Lord Vetinari, by all accounts, is an exceedingly cruel man. A trained assassin with a dungeon full of victims – these being genuinely named individuals whose disappearance can be accounted for – and a reputation for dreadful tyranny. A very controlling man, apparently.

“What manner of filing system do you prefer, my lord?” Drumknott asks, and Vetinari leans ack in his seat, his mouth shifting into the slightest of smiles, as if all has occurred as he expected it to.

“I believe I would leave that up to your discretion, Mr Drumknott.”

Drumknott thinks for a moment.

“I ought ask,” Drumknott says mildly, “why I have been selected for this position.”

“Ought you?” Vetinari asks.

“Yes,” Drumknott says. “I expect so.”

A beat passes, and Drumknott keeps his gaze on Lord Vetinari’s.

“You can tell Ms Winterbottom to go home,” Lord Vetinari says. “Oh, and…” Leaning forward, he draws open a drawer, removing a small case, and he slides it across the table, to Drumknott. “If you would?”

Taking up the case, Drumknott flicks it open, and he peers with some curiosity at the pair of square-rimmed spectacles within, the glass set in a delicate brass frame. “I don’t require spectacles, my lord,” Drumknott says.

“No,” Vetinari agrees. “That’s plain glass. Take care you aren’t seen without them. We will discuss your wardrobe later today.”

It’s a somewhat strange working condition, but Drumknott, undeterred, reaches into the case and delicately removes the glasses, unfolding them and sliding them into his nose. The metal is a little cool where it touches the bridge of his nose, the arms dragging over his ears. It is plain glass: it does nothing for his vision, one way or the other.

He wants to ask.

_Why_?

Why him, why the glasses, why any of it?

“Thank you for the opportunity, my lord,” Drumknott says quietly. “I’ll tell Ms Winterbottom to go home. As for the paperwork—”

“Ms Winterbottom will take you through it before she goes.”

And that’s it.

No training, no further discussion, no _interview_ , even.

“Thank you, Lord Vetinari,” Drumknott says. “Would you like me to make you another cup of tea?”

Lord Vetinari glances up from the paperwork upon his desk, to Drumknott, hovering with his hand upon the door, and then his gaze flits to the entirely ignored tea on the table beside his desk. It looks, in fairness to his lordship, very, very weak, and doused in milk. Any secretary worth their salt ought be able to manage a decent cup of tea.

“If you would, Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari says.

“And, my lord?”

“Hmm?”

“It wasn’t my intention to deceive you,” he says. “Deception is not in my nature.”

“That is no trouble, Drumknott,” Vetinari says, ostensibly returning his gaze to the reams of paperwork before him. “You’ll soon learn.”

 

[1] The young Rufus Drumknott became a regular haunt of the library from the age of seven onwards, and is looked upon with some baffled regard by various wizards, many of whom were convinced that the child was, for quite some time, merely a quiet student of exceedingly youthful appearance that happened to never come to classes, as is often the case with students.

[2] To put this more accurately, “face-to-goateed-chin” might be more appropriate.


	2. Rapid Developments

Vetinari stands, for some minutes, in the doorway of his personal secretary’s office. Rufus Drumknott has neatly hung his briefcase and his coat on the coatrack in the corner of the room, and Lucille Winterbottom (ever the woman he employs whilst between personal secretaries, more for her ability to deter unwelcome visitors with such aplomb than for any secretarial ability on her part) has departed.

One hour ago, Drumknott had returned to the Oblong Office, setting a new cup of tea beside Vetinari’s desk: this tea had been somewhat bitter, with neither milk nor sugar, and with the addition of a dash of ginger. It had been very bracing, and while Vetinari has never taken ginger in his tea before, he had rather enjoyed the taste. With that, he had disappeared into his own office, and has not, judging by the sound of the boards in the corridor[1], stepped out since.

The secretary’s office directly beside the Oblong Office is around half its size: two bookshelves of relevant yearbooks, almanacs and compendiums are set against the lefthand wall, and the doorway’s wall is dominated primarily by a series of dark-painted filing cabinets. The secretary’s desk had previously been set in parallel to the window on the righthand side, but has been neatly moved to the very centre of the room, between the two short walls and directly in between the open doorway and the locked door to the extended files on the opposite wall[2].

Rufus Drumknott is on his knees, his gaze focused on the files spread about him, which is neatly reordering. Previously, the files – these being files on notable persons of interest within Ankh-Morpork – had been organised by surname, but Drumknott is reorganising them based off, Vetinari can see, date of birth, or approximate date of birth.

He is not wearing the glasses Vetinari had just given to him, and instructed him not to be seen without: they are resting on the floorboard beside him, in parallel to his knee.

He has been here for some minutes now, and the secretary has shown no sign of noticing him, not glancing in his direction – it is possible, Vetinari supposes, that the boy’s instincts are not as keen as Vetinari had suspected, and yet…

Delicately, Vetinari clears his throat, and Drumknott’s gaze flits in Vetinari’s direction, the movement very smooth and subtle: absolutely no surprise shows in his features at all, and Vetinari realises, with no small amount of satisfaction, that he had _indeed_ known Vetinari was here in the doorway. There are no small amount of clues even if not looking in this direction, after all, and yet Drumknott had not even flinched…

 _Yes_ , Vetinari thinks. _Yes, he has made a very good selection in young Drumknott_.

Less than a quarter of a second after turning to look at him, Drumknott’s eyes shift in a very convincing squint, and he reaches for his glasses, drawing them back onto his nose as he slowly gets to his feet, his hands behind his back, his shoulders back.

“My lord,” he says primly. “Might I fetch you anything?”

“Why are you organising by birth order?” Vetinari asks cleanly, and he sees the slight surprise ghost over Drumknott’s expression before neutrality returns. “Mr Wonse’s organisation by surname was quite traditional, was it not?”

“Indeed, sir,” Drumknott allows. “But date of birth is absolute and unchanging, and approximate age can be allowed a numeric value within a five-year point; names are subject to change, and while Mr Wonse’s method of organising by most common and/or original appellation likely served well in the majority of cases, it nonetheless would entail re-ordering upon later revelations or reinventions. Not every criminal,” he adds, with some prejudice, as if this is one of the worst crimes imaginable, “is so consistent in his pseudonyms as to allow himself to be appropriately filed in the traditional manner.”

“I see,” Vetinari murmurs, feeling a general sense of satisfaction – general organisation not-withstanding, date of birth, as a less traditional method of filing, will make it more difficult for any invader of the secretary’s office to happen upon the correct file, which will be… _amusing_. “And the desk?”

Drumknott hesitates, and Vetinari examines him very carefully, taking him in.

He’s been aware of Rufus Drumknott ever since a small altercation in the Unseen University’s Library some years back, leaving Vimes to make a rather pointed comment about the boy that had prompted Vetinari to do some further research, and he’d been aware even as Wonse’s silly little schemes had built up that Drumknott would render a superb replacement. There are drawbacks, of course, in a secretary so young – he lacks experience, and moreover, has no formal training in the arena at all, which may make him an easy target, although… The benefits somewhat outweigh the deficits, or, he believes so[3], at any rate.  

“Mr Drumknott?” Vetinari prompts, allowing some expectation to seep into his tone.

“I do not mean to criticize my predecessor, my lord,” Drumknott says slowly, “but the space in the centre of the room seemed ill-used to my mind, and left too clean a path from the corridor to the file room.

“Oh? And in the event a would-be intelligencer enters by way of the window?”[4]

“There will not be a window there for much longer, my lord,” Drumknott says mildly.

“Oh? Are you planning to brick it up?” Vetinari’s sardonic tone is met with neither amusement or indignation. Drumknott’s gaze remains steady.

“No, my lord. I am going to set the bookshelves to the outer wall instead of the wall adjoining your office, blocking the window entirely, and I will set the filing cabinets against that wall instead.” Drumknott hesitates a second longer, and then adds experimentally, “With your lordship’s approval, of course: I was perhaps too bold in assuming my discretion in filing habits extended to the geography of the office.”

Vetinari ignores this latter statement, and asks, “And why, pray, are you moving the filing cabinets?”

“To hide the shared cache between the offices, in the lower part of the wall, my lord. A hatch in the bottom drawer of the third cabinet will be better concealed than the hatch behind Fordon’s Astronomical Almanac, Volume 12, regardless.” Again, Drumknott takes a moment, before he says, “Again, I would stress I do not mean to criticize Mr Wonse’s—”

“Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari says quietly, “I would ask that you not move the bookshelves yourself. This evening, I will have two of the men from downstairs do so.”

Drumknott frowns. “Very well, my lord,” he acquiesces, “although I shall have to reorder the books anyway, so moving the empty bookshelf would be no hardship.”

“Perhaps not,” Lord Vetinari agrees, “but I would rather you proceed about your duties without triggering the various instruments of death poised to leap out at an assassin hoping to make use of the shared wall by moving one of the bookcases. My general desire of your good health notwithstanding, some of those poisons do damage to the carpet we should rather avoid, if said damage is not quite necessary.”

Again, there is not so much as a flicker of a flinch on his face. Instead, Drumknott neatly inclines his head, and says, “Of course, my lord.”

“Have you ever killed a man, Drumknott?” Vetinari asks evenly.

“No, my lord,” Drumknott asks.

“Would you like to?”

For a moment, Drumknott seems to consider this.

The glasses rather do perform their allotted task: they exaggerate his youth somewhat, and do lend to him the sense that he is even more vulnerable than he seems, although Vetinari should like to coach his body language into something… _smaller_. Drumknott is a rather small man, and he lacks any formal training in regards to physical defence, and Vetinari should rather heavily emphasize the general narrative that his new clerk is utterly incapable of defending himself. People expect trouble from one of the dark clerks – he should rather no one expect trouble at all from Mr Drumknott, that they might be surprised later on.

“I don’t believe so, my lord,” he says, in a tone of great politeness, as someone refusing a proffered biscuit from a tray.

“You may have to,” Vetinari says delicately. He says this purely that he might watch for the response, which is gratifying: rather than stiffening, Drumknott’s expression softens slightly, seemingly recognising the gravity of the statement.

“Perhaps so, my lord,” Drumknott says. “In the event it falls beneath my duty to do so, I will.”

Vetinari allows that to hover between them for a moment, that Drumknott might have time to digest what he’s said, but Drumknott has the air of a young man very certain of what he means to say, and not in the habit of saying things without prior thought, even under duress.

“Ms Winterbottom has delineated the current status of the paperwork that will be passing through your hands?”

“Indeed, my lord; I will be further apprised this afternoon by Mr Lockheed and Mr Shaw[5]. Separately.”

“Curious,” Vetinari murmurs. “Mr Lockheed and his workers primarily do not contribute to paperwork, Drumknott.”

“That may be so, sir,” Drumknott agrees, “but I thought it best Mr Lockheed apprise me on best procedure, as to what ought it be sent to his attention, rather than Mr Shaw’s. While I am certain it is beyond my purview to take in the specific duties of the Dark Clerks, my lord, I am nonetheless aware of the importance of their service in the Palace, and should not like to misstep with them or commit some faux-pas.”

Taking a further step into the room, Vetinari looks at the books on the lower part of the bookshelf, taking them in. Fordon’s Astronomical Almanacs, each very thick books, are neatly arranged from volumes 1 to 24 across the two big bookshelves, which almost span the whole of the walls, and he drops into a delicate crouch, drawing Volumes 11 and 12 from the second lowest shelf and examining them.

He rarely makes use of Fordon’s books, and nor does his secretary: Volume 11’s cover and pages, on the bottom, are in very good order; Volume 12 is ever so slightly more distressed, the cloth binding a little worn.

Smiling slightly, Vetinari pushes the two books back, and he stands, meeting Drumknott’s gaze.

“Do you have your employment contract, Mr Drumknott?” Vetinari asks, quietly. Drumknott nods, promptly moving and taking up the document from the desk, which has been carefully written out by one of the clerks downstairs, and has already been signed and dated by Drumknott, waiting for the Patrician’s signature.

Taking up Drumknott’s pen and leaning slightly upon the desk, ignoring the cushioned chair, he neatly crosses out a number in a line[6], rewrites it[7], and then moves to set his signature on the dotted line, but is prevented by an all-too-expected sound of complaint from Drumknott.

“Is there a problem, Mr Drumknott?” Vetinari asks, innocently.

“I’m very grateful, my lord, although I’m sure there’s no need,” Drumknott says, a little fear now having crept into his eyes as he looks between Vetinari’s face and the pen in his hand, “but if it meets with your lordship’s approval, I would write that contract out again properly before you signed it.” It does not appear to be fear of Vetinari _himself_ , curiously enough. As the best clerks are, the young man seems to be slightly insane.

“Why, no one is likely to see the contract other than yourself, Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari says. Much like before, when he had asked a few personal questions to test the boy’s resolve, this is a test in itself: he wishes to see how Drumknott will react to something being put away shoddily, even if only _he_ will know.

“Nonetheless, my lord,” Drumknott maintains. “We oughtn’t maintain standards merely for the sake of scrutiny.”

“And what if I said,” Vetinari asks, stepping close to Drumknott again, and forcing him to look up into Vetinari’s face once again, “that unless you put the contract away in its current form, I would not allow for the additional boost to your pay?”

Drumknott stares at him, looking _horrified_ , and studying his expression very carefully, as if looking for some sign of humour in Vetinari’s neutral expression. He says, very quietly, “My lord Vetinari, with the greatest of respect, you are already being very generous with my salary, far more so than is necessary, and I could do very easily without an additional five dollars per month, I am sure. But standards are _everything_.”

“Mr Drumknott, are you going to make a habit of responding to threats with such devotion to duty and a general lack of anxiety?” Vetinari asks softly, and Drumknott’s expression flickers for a moment.

Drumknott narrows his eyes slightly, his lips parting. “Were you threatening me, my lord?” he asks, with such studied innocence once could almost believe it entirely real. The fact of the matter, however, is that while he _claims_ deception is not in his nature, it seems that Drumknott prefers to act less intelligent, less observant than he is.

Of course, according to what his Dark Clerks had discovered when they had looked into his background, on his first job upon graduating from school, two attempts were made on his life in the aftermath of his noting some discrepancies in the filing at a merchants’ office in the dockyard, although they had luckily not hired an Assassin.

One of the assailants had almost drowned in the harbour, after an anchor had been clipped to his belt loop and dropped in the water, and the other, Drumknott had headbutted, breaking his nose and throwing him backward into a stack of clay bricks. Drumknott, from what Vetinari can only assume, has the attention of some luck-associated deity, because the man had fractured his skull in the fall, and had been unable to continue his assault.

It is not easy to look at a young man like Drumknott, petite, red-faced, and somewhat severe of feature, and imagine him headbutting his would-be murderer, nor the idea of him neatly clipping a criminal with an anchor and then watching him struggle beneath the water until the Watch had arrived.

Then again, in the original report Vimes had written on the man a year later, he had started a brawl in the Unseen University Library, ostensibly because the man he had fought, and who had done some damage to Drumknott before he’d stapled the man to a shelf by his ear[8] with had insulted and then moved as if to strike the Librarian, a gentleman (and orangutan) of some renown.

But then, for a young man growing up and living in Ankh-Morpork, only three violent incidents on record is quite a small number.

“Have you had much experience with Assassins, Mr Drumknott?”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott says. “Doctor Cruces offered me a position as a member of their clerks’ office, but I politely refused.”

Vetinari _had_ known that, and it makes him almost smile. What he does not know, however, is the reason _why_ : Drumknott seems rather uncomfortable all of a sudden, his discomfort actually showing in his place, and while Vetinari doesn’t necessarily want his clerk to be uncomfortable _all_ the time…

“ _Why_?” Vetinari asks.

“I don’t believe it would be polite of me to say, sir,” Drumknott mutters quietly, glancing away from Vetinari for a moment.

“Now, Mr Drumknott, you are making me _curious_ ,” Vetinari says softly. There is a rising colour in Drumknott’s cheeks, now, the naturally pink colour darkening to a deeper red, and as he watches the apple of his throat bob under his high shirt collar, Vetinari tilts his head just slightly to the side. “In this office, you will be _dealing_ in information, you know.”

“He made an offhand comment about tailors while we were talking,” Drumknott says quietly. “Laughed and said he’d advertise discounts if it wouldn’t get the guild council in a tizzy.”

“The tailors?” Vetinari repeats.

Drumknott swallows once more, and then clarifies, “Tailor _boys **[9]**_ , sir?”

Ah.

It is not often that Vetinari is surprised, but in this moment, he rather is.

There are a few contributing factors: Doctor Cruces’ distaste for the “inverted” members of the Ankh-Morporkian community is something he is somewhat aware of, but to make a joke like _that_ is somewhat beyond the pale, even if the man is getting more unhinged with his advancing age… And to say something like that to a young man like Drumknott, that is thoughtless, and—

Drumknott still isn’t looking at him.

 _Ah_.

“Mr Drumknott, _tyrant_ though I may infamously be,” Vetinari says very silkily, in as smooth and even a voice as he can muster, “I am _generally_ of the opinion that any individual living in Ankh-Morpork ought be able to live their life as they choose, so long as they aren’t harming anyone outside of guild allowances.”

 _Besides_ , Vetinari could quite easily add, were he especially keen to share such details of his personal life with his secretary-of-two-hours, _it would be rather hypocritical of me were I to look down on such things, non-practising though I might be._

Drumknott looks up at him, and there’s an expression in his face that resembles…

 _Awe_.

The mask of perfect neutrality has been replaced by a slack jaw, eyes wide behind the glass of his new spectacles, his brows slightly furrowed as he _peers_ up Vetinari. He looks as if a feather could knock him over, he’s so stunned.

“Problem, Mr Drumknott?” Vetinari asks, not indelicately.

“I— No, my lord,” Drumknott says, exhaling, and he looks at Vetinari, for just a _moment,_ as if—

And then that expression fades away, neatly replaced once more with the mask of quiet compliance.

Deception is not in Drumknott’s nature – and yet here, Vetinari sees the _layers_ of artifice.

He’s rather excited to pick this new puzzle apart.

“What time is it, Drumknott?”

He expects the young man to look at the clock on the wall, or at the pocket watch he can see the chain of hanging neatly at his hip, but he doesn’t. Drumknott says, without a backward glance, “Fifty-five minutes past the hour, my lord. Five minutes to twelve.”

“Then you ought down the stairs,” Vetinari says, “and get your lunch from the cook. Mr Wonse used to eat alone, in here, although I should be _more_ than glad if you were to take your meals with the other members of the staff here.”

“Espionage is within my duties, then,” Drumknott says slowly, experimentally. So _quick_ , and yet so keen to pretend he is stupider than he is.

“I wouldn’t call it _that_ ,” Vetinari says. “We will have a discussion as to your… _specific_ duties, and what you ought expect, once you’ve finished your lunch.”

“I don’t mean to inconvenience you, your lordship,” Drumknott says.

“Oh?” Vetinari turns a very cold look on Drumknott, and he sees Drumknott’s expression flicker a moment longer, sees the young man step back: his breath seems to catch in his throat, but again lingers a trace of that momentary awe from a moment previous. He deepens the stare, just to see how much Drumknott _shows_ it, but no: his neutrality does not crack any further, his lips pressed together.

“My lord?” Drumknott asks, softly.

“You ought down the stairs,” Vetinari repeats.

“My lord, I ate a hearty breakfast, and I should rather complete this—”

“ _Drumknott_ ,” Vetinari says, suppressing the often-present urge to laugh in the face of his flustered employees. “That is _not_ a suggestion.”

Drumknott’s expression colours.

“My lord,” he says, with an immediate nod of his head, and he hesitates, glancing to the files, but—

“They can remain where they are,” Vetinari says, and makes a shooing motion with his hand. “Off you go.”

And by the heavens, doesn’t he _rush_.

 

[1] It is a well-known fact that Lord Vetinari can, quite uncannily, predict precisely who is coming to visit his office at any given moment. The manner in which this information is deduced is, in fact, quite simple: the floorboards outside of the Oblong Office creak quietly, although not obtrusively, underfoot, and it is rather easy, with practice, to know who a visitor is based on the weight they employ on the boards and their unique gait.

[2] The fact of this movement of furniture was something of a surprise to Lord Vetinari, as Drumknott had managed the feat alone, and with no noise that Vetinari had heard.

[3] Lord Vetinari’s beliefs are rarely proved wrong, in the scheme of things.

[4] Another clerk might have shot a doubtful look at the window, which is some four storeys up from the general palace roof, and a good twenty from the courtyard; the water from the roof is moved by means of traditional gargoyles as opposed to scalable drainpipes, and famously, many of the bricks in the tower’s walls are laden with traps and contact poisons. Drumknott did not so much as blink.

[5] These being the respective heads of the Patrician’s Dark Clerks and general palace clerks.

[6] _“to be paid the sum of  $55.00 per calendar month”_

[7] _“to be paid the sum of $60.00 per calendar month”_

[8] The man in question, Raymond Quigg, was in the library in the hopes he could steal and sell on some of the magical texts. He later died after a book immolated him in self-defence.

[9] Although not officially allowed membership into the infamous Seamstresses’ Guild, the guild for women of negotiable affection, male pliers of the trade are nonetheless called “tailors” or “tailor boys” on the city streets, and this term now loosely refers to any homosexual in the Morporkian lexicon.


	3. Certainty

He has… Mis-stepped. He doesn’t know how, exactly, but he has been brought into the Patrician’s Palace, offered a working position not merely as a clerk, but as the personal secretary to _his lordship_ , the Patrician, and—

_Why?_

Why him?

He is too young, in all honesty, too young and too inexperienced, to be the personal secretary of any individual of higher renown, let alone the most powerful man in Ankh-Morpork, and… Certainly, there are those that prefer a young personal clerk, when they hire one: you train them to your own habits without their having too much holdover from other positions, particularly when you plan to hire them for some time, but—

But. But, but, but.

In the face of greater efficiency, it is sometimes the case that Drumknott rather loses his concentration, his _ability_ to focus on other things, because he leans into the quiet, internal world of file numbers, statistics, names. Even as he descends the steps toward the kitchens and to the servants’ dining hall, following the directions palace guars give him as they see him pass by, they swim before his internal vision, slotting into place and waiting to be reordered.

And it is just—

Here he is, given an office, a working position, all at once, despite scarcely knowing the geography of the palace, and he _has_ worked as a personal secretary before, but ordinarily merely filling in for an individual struck down with illness or on their honeymoon[1], not taking on the entire _command_ all at once…

And in service to the Patrician, who might not torture as many people as the average individual in Ankh-Morpork says, but certainly has tortured some people, and certainly does _kill_ people fairly often, or has them killed. The Patrician, nonetheless, is…

Drumknott isn’t sure what to make of him.

Whilst he had been working on his files, he had of course heard the Patrician’s feet in the corridor as he’d left his own office, although the door to the Oblong Office itself is so silent the hinges might well be made of some enchanted iron: he had heard the subtle creaks of the boards in the corridor as he’d moved into the doorway, felt the slight change in the light in the room as he’d blocked the extra sun coming in from the corridor, felt the change in temperature as he’d blocked the draught from the wider palace halls.

He hadn’t looked up.

He had continued working with his files, merely to see what he would _do_ , and he hadn’t done anything, hadn’t said anything, until he’d actually cleared his throat and drawn his attention. Certainly, Drumknott has experience with those who would hover over him in the hopes of giving him a shock or catching him out, but he so hates to give people that satisfaction, of making a clerk jump in his chair.

He oughtn’t have told Lord Vetinari about what Doctor Cruces had said. It had been such an offhand comment, a chuckling thing said more to himself and to the other Assassins in the room than to Drumknott himself… And Drumknott would _hope_ he hadn’t taken it as some sort of personal confession, because that isn’t how it was intended, he had merely—

 _Merely, merely_.

He hesitates in front of the door marked **STAFF DINING ROOM** with a brass plate, and then he inhales, rapping his knuckles neatly against the closed door. Almost immediately, it opens, and Drumknott had quite forgotten about lunch _whilst_ he’d been working, but now the smell of some bubbling stew and freshly baked bread catches in his nose, he is arrested.

The figure in front of him is dressed most fastidiously, and he looks Drumknott up and down, taking in his suit and his polished shoes. The butler, Drumknott surmises, from the state of his hands and the style of his suit – he’s very stout, but his moustache is paper thin, and he looks down at Drumknott from deep green eyes.

“And who might you be?” he asks, in a voice as smooth as anything, his accent delicately clipped.

“Rufus Drumknott, sir. His lordship just appointed me as his personal secretary this morning, and advised me come down here to—”

“You don’t need to call me _sir_ , lad,” he replies, in the particular accent of Dolly Sisters, and he claps one of his delicate hands down _hard_ on Drumknott’s back, pulling him inside. “D’you want to eat down here with us, or are you gonna bring your lunch up to the office, eh?”

“Oh,” Drumknott says, “I’m not sure, I—”

“Sure, look, we’ll introduce you, first, see if you like the look of us,” the butler says cheerfully, and Drumknott feels like he’s spinning with the rapidity of the drop of his cultured accent. “Here, I’m Stanley Stebbins, I am, I’m the butler; here, this is Steph Heavens, she’s the cook—”

“Hallo there, lad, we’ll have to put some weight on you, won’t we?” Steph Heavens says with a rather forced smile, as if she’s struggling to remain of high mood.

“This is Victoria Triplett, she’s the housekeeper, and that there’s Victor Triplett, he’s Victoria’s son, he’s a footman, don’t get ‘em mixed up, and here’s Edgar Woken, he’s Victor’s apprentice; here’s Millie Easy, she’s new on the staff too, aren’t you, love? She’s only a wee lass; and here’s Edna Gooseberry and Felicia Cancre, they’re the next senior maids after Mrs Dipplock here; and there’s Patrick and George Stanton, they’re the stable boys; Gordon Milliner, he’s the groom but he makes a mean flat cap if you get my drift, ha!”

Another hard slap comes down against Drumknott’s back, and he tries to breathe without wheezing as he gives a polite bow to the staff, most of whom are looking at him with raised eyebrows and looks of general amusement.

A young woman and two young boys filter into the room, slowly followed by an extremely tall, rather manic man with a thick scar running from the corner of his mouth down to the side of his jaw.

“And that’s, uh, that’s Heather Heavens, and the boys are Cliff and Eddie,” Stebbins continues, a little more reservedly. “Assistant cook, and the food tasters.”

Palace food tasters are always the cook’s children, Drumknott thinks, slightly detachedly. His mother would have shuddered at the thought – Drumknott can’t help but think it’s somewhat sensible.

The very tall man sidles forward, and Drumknott feels Stebbins’ hand come away from his back as he takes a hurried step back, leaving Drumknott toe-to-toe, and staring directly _up_ into the face of the manic man with the facial scarring, who is _beaming_.

“And who might you be?” Drumknott asks, in his best approximation of a casual tone whilst feeling like he ought be gritting his teeth: once more, he calls upon the fatalistic philosophy that has _always_ served him well. If he is going to die, it is decided by the gods, and there is no sense in worrying; if he is not going to die, he is not going to die, and there is no sense in worrying.

 “I am Cedric,” he says, his Quirmian accent rather thick. “I am the Head Torturer.”

Head Torturer, and everyone else in the room seems _terrified_ of him, but Stebbins just told Drumknott he oughtn’t call _Stebbins_ sir, rather implying that Vetinari’s personal assistant is superior to the palace’s _butler_ , let alone a man who primarily works in the dungeons. He can’t come across as too much of a sweet young man, but nor does he want to try to throw his _negligible_ weight around…

Genteel warmth, then.

“How lovely,” Drumknott says lightly, and he puts out his hand to shake. “My name is Mr Drumknott, and I am Lord Vetinari’s personal secretary.” _Gods_ , but if it doesn’t sound rather impressive – Drumknott doesn’t care all that much for titles and the like, has never been like some, hoping to use their clerk skills to rise up into politics themselves, but there is something rather thrilling about one’s name being attached to the _Patrician’s_.

Stunned, Cedric peers down at his hand, and Drumknott is aware of the stares of the other staff as they sink down to eat, but after a short pause, Cedric _smiles_ , showing a parade of teeth that have the incongruity of shape and silhouette as the oldest stones in a graveyard, mismatched and crooked in places, some of them missing altogether.

“Oh, you are a _gentleman_ ,” he says delightedly, and he shakes Drumknott’s hand with a grip Drumknott is worried for a moment might break his fingers. “So different to Mr Wonse! So much _younger_ , too. Enchanté, my friend!”

“Why, thank you,” Drumknott says, and when Cedric steps away, he draws himself up to his full height, glancing around the room, his fingers clasped before his belly. “I do hope it won’t inconvenience you, Stephanie, if I join the table for lunch.”

“Not at all, sir!” Steph Heavens declares immediately, although her cheeks are flushed red as she works.

“And, do forgive me, but I just want to ensure I have everything in order,” Drumknott says. “Stanley, Stephanie, Heather, Mrs Triplett, young Mr Triplett, Miss Gooseberry and Miss Cancre, Mrs Dipplock, Messrs Stanton, Mr Milliner, _Cedric_ , and these two strapping young lads are Cliff and Eddie.” Cliff and Eddie, who are stout boys with exceedingly knobbly knees, are not strapping in the least, but it does make them smile with gap-toothed grins – apparently, they are well underway in their respective introduction to the work of the Tooth Fairy. “And you are Miss Easy,” he says finally, turning to look at the girl, who can’t be older than fifteen, and is staring up at him. “Millie is short for Mildred, I take it?”

“Yes, sir,” she says softly. All of them are looking at him, of course, not just Mildred, but all of them look at him in a way they hadn’t a moment ago – there’d been an element of the speculative in the gazes of the Stantons and Milliner, and that has now been replaced with a quiet respect; Mrs Dipplock, who had had the air of a woman ready to make her authority known at any moment, is now concentrating on fixing some out of place pin in Cancre’s hair…

“Very good,” Drumknott says, and he takes the place Stebbins hurriedly sets for him, sinking slowly into the seat. “Is this all the staff that take lunch in the kitchens?”

“Aye, thereabouts,” Stebbins answers, sinking down at the end place and dragging his palm thoughtfully over his jaw. “There’s a big team of gardeners, but they usually have their food altogether at three o’clock instead of twelve, with the cab drivers and all. The Guards usually eat on their own and all, ‘cause they have their own little kitchen in the Guardhouse you see, so they just eat together themselves.”

“I see,” Drumknott says quietly. “And the schedule for meals here?”

“Oh, I’m happy to work around you, Mr Drumknott,” Steph Heavens says hurriedly, a little bit of fear in her eyes, and Drumknott watches her for a second, digesting this.

“Hardly, Stephanie,” Drumknott says slowly, with a great deal more confidence than he feels, and doing his best to employ the easy and authoritative speech his father had once employed, before he’d died. “I will eat with the staff, barring the occasions where I elect to work through the meal period. I should hardly wish to put you through any undue inconvenience.”

“The schedule is quite forthright,” Mrs Triplett says quietly. “Breakfast is served on the hour at seven, after morning duties are completed for the household staff, although it may be first thing in the morning for you, Mr Drumknott—”

Detecting the slightest hint of rancour in this statement, Drumknott allows himself a beatific, close-lipped smile, and says mildly, “I rise at five-thirty, Mrs Triplett, and I have no doubt the Patrician will keep me quite busy.”

Triplett hesitates for a second, and then continues, a little more politely, “And lunch is served at twelve. The Patrician eats at the same time, and he doesn’t eat anything all that fancy – he mostly eats the same as what we do. He’s right thrifty in that sense: he doesn’t believe in wasting money on himself, with fancy food or shiny clothes and that. And then, dinner is served at seven o’clock. Most of us finish up work at ten o’clock, ten-thirty at the latest, and most of the household staff rise between five and six, so you’ll find people to hand. In the event you ever need somebody in the night, there’s Mr Hickson, Larry. He’s the night porter, and he normally retires at around seven in the morning, so he’ll be up about three or four in the afternoon. And, uh—”

Triplett clears her throat delicately, adjusting her cap, and says, “Of course, if you’re right pushed in the night, and Larry’s busy, you can usually call on one of the Dark Clerks. There’s them that works all the night through. They don’t stop for blood nor money.”

 _And why should they?_ Drumknott almost wants to ask, but he doesn’t, holding his tongue.

Lunch is served, and he keeps himself quiet and rather still, letting them almost forget he is there. It is a skill the best clerks have, to be able to fade into the background somewhat, and fade he does: before long, they are speaking as usual amongst themselves, although not one of them makes conversation with Cedric, who eats while reading some Quirmian romance novel.

No one speaks ill of the Patrician.

But then, who would be mad enough to do that?

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

The young man, when he returns from his lunch hour, does not come immediately into Vetinari’s office. Vetinari listens for him as he comes down the corridor, his steps so light almost as to not offset the boards at all – Wonse had been a man of light foot, but not so much as Drumknott, who walks almost as silently as Vetinari himself. Were Vetinari’s ears not so keenly attuned to the noise of the boards, perhaps he wouldn’t hear it at all.[2]

Vetinari reads the rest of the report from some of his Dark Clerks abroad in Lancre, saying that things are as odd in the Ramtops as ever, but not unduly so, and finally glances up at the shifting floorboards, followed by the quiet knock on the door.

“Come in,” he says crisply, and Drumknott enters, closing the door carefully behind him, setting a few more papers and reports on the corner of his desk, and taking up those that Vetinari has already marked with his signature and seal. “Don’t worry, Drumknott, if you don’t take up everyone’s names today: I have a primer ready for you.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“The same might be said for the geography of the palace, and the same as for the palace schedule – the regular deliveries, changeovers of staff, general working hours… All you ought be aware of for the sake of security.”

“Very well, my lord, I will study it intently.”

“Mrs Winterbottom arranged to send you with a coach to your lodgings with Mrs Jordan to collect your things at six o’clock sharp. Are you ready to proceed with your working schedule?”

“Of course, my lord,” Drumknott says dutifully, and Vetinari leans back in his seat, gesturing to the chair across from him. Drumknott sinks down into his seat, and Vetinari opens his desk drawer, removing the black leather handbook one of the Dark Clerks had rather neatly removed from Wonse’s body before the Watch could remove his body, and holding it out.

 _This_ is the simplest of it, of course: it contains the general running of the palace; the duties, wages, and relevant information as to all of the main staff; the budgets that ought not be overrun; the clerks in service of the palace most appropriate to call on in times of crisis; a series of important contacts in the city; and, of course, the personal secretary’s own schedule.

The most _curious_ thing that Drumknott does is shift his glasses from his nose, looking over the lenses in order to read, as if he _needs_ to. Spectacles, an affectation the young man has had not yet for a day, and already he wears them in a consistent manner, reading text without, and performing his general duties _with_.

Drumknott frowns, examining the schedule.

“Problem, Mr Drumknott?” Vetinari asks.

“Not a problem, my lord,” the young clerk says immediately, his gaze flitting up to meet Vetinari’s, and then, most gratifyingly, shifting as he pushes his glasses back up his nose. “Merely surprise, that is all. It says here my duties complete at seven o’clock, barring extenuating circumstances.”

“Yes,” Vetinari agrees.

Drumknott’s face is momentarily frozen as he keeps Vetinari’s gaze, slightly too still, and then he nods his head in polite acquiescence.

“Very well, my lord,” he says, apparently biting back whatever complaint he has – perhaps that he should rather break _before_ dinner, although for a young man as focused upon his work as Drumknott, that seems unlikely. It will come out soon enough. The young man is very perceptive, and Vetinari is glad to put that to use, but _hardworking_ – unlike better perception, that is all but impossible to train into someone who isn’t already aligned in that direction. “Octedays are half-days?”

“Yes, Drumknott,” Vetinari says. “Will that be a problem?”

Again, that freeze of the expression, so _fleeting_ , and yet so revealing. “No, my lord,” Drumknott says.

“You would rather Sundays as your half-day, perhaps?”

“No, my lord.”

“Tuesdays?”

“No, my lord.”

“Is there another day, pray, that you would prefer as your half-day?”

“No, my lord.”

So _polite_ , now, as if he is frightened to appear incautious. Vetinari leans back in his chair, looking at Drumknott evenly.

“Mr Drumknott,” he says, with a rather cold smile, “is there, perhaps, some reason you object to finishing at seven o’clock, and having Octedays as your half day?”

“I wish only to serve your lordship to the best of my ability, my lord,” Drumknott says quietly, and his gaze flits down to the desktop instead of continuing to meet Vetinari’s gaze. It would be a sign of fear, in some clerks, but it doesn’t seem like fear here: it is deferential. The young man is used to the posturing and bluster of working for many of the men in the city, who would hire a temporary clerk and expect him to solve their problems with the minimum of fuss before he moves on.

“Keep my gaze when you speak with me, Drumknott,” Vetinari says cleanly, the words cutting through the air, and Drumknott’s gaze flits back up. “You do not break eye contact with an Assassin, not when the two of you are sitting face-to-face.”

A muscle in Drumknott’s jaw twitches. “Yes, my lord. My apologies.”

“Now tell me, Drumknott, your complaint.”

“It is not a complaint, my lord,” Drumknott says evenly, his brown eyes unblinking. “Merely that I am of the belief that so long as my employer is working, I ought be working too.”

“I do not stop working, Drumknott,” Vetinari says patiently.

“Very good, my lord,” Drumknott replies.

“I retire to my quarters at around ten o’clock,” Vetinari says, more to see what Drumknott will _do_ than because it is especially true – ordinarily, he retires to bed at half-past the hour, although this does rather _depend_. In the latter hours of the evening, he does not ordinarily require an assistant’s presence, instead reading the reports that require no further editing… And yet there is no hesitation.

He watches as Drumknott fastidiously take up his pencil from his pocket, and notes on a scrap of paper in neat, looping handwriting, “ _Adjust 7pm to 10pm. Remove half-day.”_ For such a young man, the immediate propensity for work is somewhat impressive,

“And your duties, I hope, do not intimidate.”

Drumknott’s gaze flits over the appropriate page, taking in the list of elements.

“No, my lord,” Drumknott agrees.

“This book will not leave your person, Drumknott. It will ever be in your pocket; when you sleep, it ought be upon your bedside table, and no farther away from you.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Has anybody ever tried to kill you?” Vetinari asks.

Drumknott’s expression is pensive as he looks at Lord Vetinari. Very quietly, he says, “Yes, my lord. Some time back, after I discovered some problematic implications of embezzlement in one of the warehouses on the docks, my two employers endeavoured to ensure I not communicate that which I had learned to the Watch.”

“And what happened?”

“I lost them within the stacks of the warehouse stock, my lord,” Drumknott says quietly. “I knocked Mr Breeze over a stack of bricks, and Mr Hawthorne followed me out onto the shipyard after I had sounded the bell for help. I managed to clip an anchor chain to him before lowering the anchor into the harbour.”

“Yes, I believe the report says you were watching him struggle when the Watch arrived, is that not so?” If Drumknott is surprised that Vetinari has read the report in question, he does not say so.

“Yes, my lord,” Drumknott agrees placidly, with no outward display of shame. “Corporal Ironfoundersson fished him out, though, and I believe he was quite alright in the end. Until, that is, someone slit his throat in his prison cell in the Tanty.” When Vetinari arches an eyebrow, Drumknott adds, “An unrelated dispute, my lord – apparently he had slept with the ex-wife of his assailant, although that is naught more than gossip from the city street.”

Mr Hawthorne, to Vetinari’s awareness, had _indeed_ been killed in the dispute described, and it doesn’t surprise him that someone should cheerfully tell young Drumknott his would-be murderer had died in prison. Drumknott does not appear gleeful, and nor indeed does he appear guilty.

The only scant emotion that shows in his voice or his expression is a slightly dreamy quality when he lingers on the subject of Carrot Ironfoundersson, and Vetinari is aware of the young man’s dazzling appeal to most everyone in Ankh-Morpork, in one way or another. This infatuation, he thinks, ought perhaps be filed for later examination.

“And when I was a young man,” Drumknott adds, “A member of the Assassins’ Guild school did his best to drown me during an apple bobbing competition. I was fourteen, as was she.”

“Indeed?” Vetinari asks: _this_ incident he had not heard about. “And how, pray, did you throw her off?”

“I didn’t, my lord,” Drumknott says. “Lord Downey intervened.”

Why, wonders _never_ cease. Lord Downey, intervening in the case of a member of his school trying to kill some lowly grocer’s son?

“And why,” Vetinari asks, “did he do that?”

“It could have been kindness on Lord Downey’s part, my lord,” Drumknott answers charitably. “Ms Vesten had something of an unexpected temper, and I had not actually said all that much to provoke her rage, except that I was not personally a proponent of apple-bobbing as an enjoyable pastime.”

“To which this girl exploded with rage.”

“I believe I suggested taking in the lantern show as an alternative, to which she declared me a fop, my lord.”

“I see,” Vetinari says, taking in Drumknott’s expression. The slightest bit of shame is showing in Drumknott’s eyes now, which is most _curious_. “If not charity, then, why else might Lord Downey have intervened, Drumknott?”

“I could not say for certain, Lord Vetinari,” Drumknott says diplomatically, “although the moment Lord Downey hauled Ms Vesten off me was, possibly coincidentally, the same moment in which I had managed to take her dirk from the holster at her hip.”

“Why, Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari purrs, _delighted_. “Is sleight of hand within your talents?”

“I have the appropriate skills of any well-made clerk, my lord,” Drumknott says: simultaneously a neat evasion of the question, and an ever so _polite_ response. “Would I be correct in assuming, my lord, that I will be the potential target of some violence, as your personal assistant?”

“I expect so. Why, does that deter you?”

“No, my lord. Living in Ankh-Morpork, one is ever the potential target of some violence.”

“You may be assassinated, Drumknott.”

“I will endeavour to avoid it, my lord.”

“You may be kidnapped and tortured for information.”

“I would not share any if I could help it, my lord.”

“I believe the torture is intended to ensure you _can’t_ help it, Drumknott.”

“Nevertheless, my lord.”

“And what will you do, pray, if someone offers you a bribe in exchange for information about me?”

“Why, refuse, my lord.”

Lord Vetinari sighs, slowly shaking his head. “No, no, Drumknott: take the bribe. We will merely discuss what information you ought then share.”

Drumknott’s eyes narrow slightly in thought, and then understanding dawns well upon his face, and his lips twitch into the ghost of a smile before he nods his head. “I see, my lord. In any case, outside of such arrangements, I am not in the habit of discussing my working life with any of my loved ones.”

“You are comfortable, then, in keeping secrets?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari says slowly. “You exhibit, in what I see of you in what documents information my Dark Clerks have assembled, a propensity for rather intelligent acts of violence; you are light-footed and quick to respond in a crisis, or in defence of somebody else. In the face of certain death, it would seem you are utterly unflappable.”

“Death does not frighten me, my lord,” Drumknott says, in a very mild tone. “Nor does pain.”

“Are you quite certain of that?” Vetinari asks lowly.

Drumknott does not look away. “I did not mean to boast, my lord. My apologies if I sounded incautious.” There is something curiously compelling in Drumknott’s quiet demeanour – he has the air of one who does not often talk to other people, and likely goes out of his way to avoid it as a rule, but this is not due to shyness or an uncertainty with people. He speaks very well, with confidence and projection enough to be heard: it is merely that he is not one for socialising.

“Tell me, Drumknott,” Vetinari says softly. “What _does_ frighten you?”

For some moments, Drumknott is pensive.

His lips press together, his head tilting slightly to the side, and Vetinari watches his brown eyes shift in thought, considering, perhaps, the question in all its appropriate detail – undoubtedly, he is considering how best to approach the question, likely without revealing too much. He has asked the question to many people before, and enjoyed their general uncertainty, their tendency to squirm in their seats and show their nerves – there are, of course, those that lie readily to the Patrician, but it seems to him thus far that Drumknott does not like to lie.

Perhaps it is some personal code he has taken on to oversee his interactions with his employers: perhaps he is _bad_ at lying, although the latter, Vetinari doubts. In any case, he has a most remarkable ability to maintain an outward calm – Lord Vetinari has never brought in an outsider to be his personal assistant before, rather than one of the Dark Clerks from the offices downstairs, and he is _most_ eager to see how the situation develops, with Drumknott being seen as a potential interloper.

If they try to rip him apart, he’s curious to see how Drumknott responds.

“I believe,” Drumknott says, plainly measuring his words very carefully, and considering them even as he says them, “that I am frightened of chaos, my lord.”

“ _Chaos_?” Vetinari repeats. “Why, Mr Drumknott, Ankh-Morpork is a city of chaos.” Certainly, it is not the city of chaos that once it was, before Havelock Vetinari took over as Patrician: the guilds are in a state of much greater organisation, the streets run more cleanly, the Watch is _almost_ adequate, and—

And Drumknott, quite unexpectedly, smiles.

“Not in the way it once was, my lord,” Drumknott replies, almost as if reading Vetinari’s own train of thought.

Vetinari stares at him, for a long second, and Drumknott seems to realize what it is he says. His cheeks, which are naturally rather red, flush furiously, and Vetinari watches in fascinated interest as Drumknott puts his fingers to his mouth, as if he might cover it and prevent his tongue from releasing any other ill-thought sentences.

Once more, there is a sliver of something strange, something with which _no one_ looks at Vetinari, quite like that…

“I merely meant—” Drumknott begins, and then stops himself, looking down at his lap for a moment, and then he meets Vetinari’s gaze once more. “Since I became a clerk, my lord,” Drumknott says, somewhat lamely.

“And what, pray, _do_ you think of my work as Patrician?”

“My opinion is irrelevant, my lord,” Drumknott says.

“Wisely answered,” Vetinari murmurs. “I believe I said, earlier, that we would discuss your wardrobe.”

“My lord?”

“I should like for you to purchase some classical clerk’s robes,” Vetinari says. “The modern suit is clean-cut, sensible attire, but some of my associates are _panicked_ by modern developments: traditional robes will raise no eyebrows.”

He watches Drumknott make another careful note: _traditional clerk’s robes. Neatly tailored, ¾ length sleeves, wide-hemmed trousers._

Vetinari had been about to go on – the suggestion of three-quarter length sleeves lingers on his tongue, and now he looks at Drumknott very thoughtfully, appraising him again. The young man does not say so, but he is doing his best to follow Vetinari’s train of thought, and how _admirably_ he is doing.

“Although your traditional shoes, I regret, ought be exchanged for some boots,” Vetinari adds. “You may have to run in my service, Drumknott, and I fear you could not suitably hurry in those neat little bluchers.”

“Very well, my lord.”

“Mr Fracks is on hand as the tailor for the palace,” Vetinari adds, politely ignoring the slight stiffness to Drumknott’s shoulder. “He will take your measurements tomorrow morning, and hand on your details to the cobbler.

“There are a few security protocols you ought take into account. Regardless of your destination, two guards will accompany you wherever you go alone in the city, whether it is to perform business, errands, or take some personal time. I suggest you not attempt to shrug them off, as they will not respond favourably. You ought think carefully about what businesses you patronise – of course, the businesses you choose to patronise does reflect upon me as your employer, but it is crucial that you choose businesses of discretion and trustworthiness for the sake of your own safety. Mr Fracks ought be the only tailor that takes you aside to measure you – in general, attempts to isolate you or place you alone in a room ought, of course, be avoided. Mr Lockheed will brief you further.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Do you carry a weapon?”

“No, my lord.”

“Are you going to start?”

“I can if you wish for me to carry one, my lord.”

“I thought perhaps _you_ might want to,” Vetinari answers, mildly, with a vague gesture of one hand. He does not disregard the way that Drumknott’s gaze lingers on his fingers before it returns to his face. “This is a position in which you may face great personal risk.”

“No more than you, my lord,” Drumknott says.

“The difference being, Drumknott, that I am a trained Assassin.”

“The majority of my working hours would be spent in your presence, my lord,” Drumknott says, not indelicately. “In the event I attempted to disarm an attacker well-trained enough to come into the Palace, I expect I would be in your way, or in the way of the Palace Guard.”

The problem with some personal assistants Vetinari has employed in the past – before Wonse – has been in their self-confidence, their _arrogance_ , in their ability to face an Assassin, or a spy, within the realms of the palace walls. Rufus Drumknott has no such belief (founded or otherwise) in his ability to kill a trained killer, and yet has more experience than most.

“It is very nearly half-past one, my lord,” Drumknott says. “If I might be excused, I will meet with Mr Lockheed. Would you like me to bring you anything first?”

“No, Drumknott,” Vetinari murmurs, feeling _satisfied_. “Although, do try not to scream.”

“To scream, my lord?” Drumknott repeats. Vetinari hears – somewhat revealingly – the barest note of _excitement_ in the young man’s voice, which is patently ridiculous, and yet…

“Yes,” he says cleanly. “It upsets the Guard.”

“Very well, my lord,” Drumknott replies, hiding any anxiety if he does feel it, and he steps neatly from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

_Do try not to scream_.

And he says it so _casually_ , with such ease and with so little implication in his voice, and Drumknott has to keep himself from questioning further, and he doesn’t know—

As Drumknott steps back into his office, he sees the blur of motion from the corner, and although he tries to sidestep it, Lockheed is faster: Drumknott is pinned up against the side of  a bookcase, a knife at his throat, drawn up from the floor with his shirt collar all but choking him and his feet scarcely touching the floor; the latter he brings up, bracing his foot against Lockheed’s thigh to stop himself from choking for breath, and Lockheed stares up at him, his eyes full of confusion.

Said eyes are yellow-green, like those of a cat, and although his black hair is perfectly coiffed and combed, his suit without a stitch out of place, he has the nonetheless chaotic air of one who washes blood of his hands three or four times per day.

“You didn’t scream,” he says, in a tone of some accusation.

“His lordship requested I not,” Drumknott murmurs, doing his best to keep his tone even.

“Oh,” Lockheed says, disappointedly, and the knife comes away from Drumknott’s throat, disappearing from sight without actually seeming to go into a shirt sleeve or a pocket, let alone into a holster. He moves to close the door, and then he wheels back to look at Drumknott, clapping his hands together and looking enthusiastic.

“I am going to ask you,” he says, “a _great many_ personal questions.”

“I see,” Drumknott says. “I will endeavour to answer some of them.”

Lockheed laughs, clapping a hand against his shoulder – it doesn’t hit him right in the lungs, as Stebbins’ touch had, and is merely a little over-friendly. “Any ex-girlfriends, Mr Drumknott?”

“Oh,” Drumknott says. “That sort of personal question.”

“Quite!” Lockheed says, slinging his arm around Drumknott’s neck, and bringing him to sit down.

“No ex-girlfriends,” Drumknott mutters.

“Ex-boyfriends?”

 _“No_ ,” Drumknott says.

“Any enemies, anyone who’d want to do you harm?”

“Vernon Breeze,” Drumknott answers.

“Oh, I know about him,” Lockheed says dismissively. “Anyone else?”

“Marie Vesten, although I believe she now lives in Uberwald.”

“We’ll look into her. Your sister like you much?”

“As far as I am aware.”

“Her husband doesn’t quarrel with you?”

“No.”

“Your nephew?”

“Rodney is five, Mr Lockheed.”

Lockheed levels Drumknott with a very serious look, his arm still slung right about Drumknott’s neck, their chests all but brushing against one another. He is very, _very_ uncomfortable, and he tries to shift his head out from underneath Lockheed’s arm, but Lockheed’s other hand catches him by the throat, _squeezing_.

“Mr Lockheed,” Drumknott says sharply. “Let me _go_.”

He doesn’t expect it to work, but it does: Lockheed releases him entirely, sinking into the seat across from Drumknott’s desk, and Drumknott slowly moves to sit down himself, exhaling slowly.

“So,” Lockheed says cheerfully. “Shall we start with the security protocol, or the Dark Clerks?”

“The protocol, if you please, Mr Lockheed,” Drumknott says, and Lockheed beams as he begins.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

At one o’clock in the morning, Drumknott lies in his new bed in the Patrician’s Palace. The mattress is too soft beneath his back, much softer than he is used to, and the room is a little warmer too, although the bed is big enough for two people – why, he could not say. He has been lying in the dark for some two hours now, unsuccessfully trying to sleep, filing things in his head[3], and yet no sleep is forthcoming.

He has everything from his quarters at Mrs Jordan’s lodging house, and he has sent word to Wendy and Hamish about his new employment. They had already known, at the Guild of Clerks and Secretaries, because word had been sent as soon as he’d accepted the position.

The rest of the day had been…

Uneventful.

He had gone through the meeting with Mr Lockheed, and been apprised on the security protocols for both himself and the Patrician’s Palace as a whole, as well as on the use of the Dark Clerks, who he was likely to meet, and so on. Mr Lockheed had then proceeded on one of the most skin-crawlingly humiliating interviews of Drumknott’s _life_ , where some of the questions had included rather _focused_ questions about his personal conduct.

He had not answered some of the questions.

He is fairly certain – as is the case with Vetinari’s questions – that they had not all been asked for the sake of a truthful answer, but for the sake of seeing his reaction.

Mr Shaw, in stark contrast to Lockheed’s cheerful desire to clamber into Drumknott’s brain and open all of the locked cupboards therein, had been very cold. He had expressed his general distaste at Drumknott’s addition to the palace staff, as opposed to giving a clerk from the downstairs office the promotion to Vetinari’s personal secretary.

That had been more expected.

Drumknott had been introduced to Wuffles, a rather old little dog who had sniffed Drumknott’s shoes uncertainly, and then, when Drumknott had sat down to take dictation for a letter, he had fallen asleep on Drumknott’s feet.

That—

That had actually been rather nice.

Drumknott isn’t especially fond of dogs – it would be easily said that he prefers cats – but Wuffles’ body had been quite warm in the slightly chill air of the Oblong Office, and when Vetinari had leaned forward slightly, and seen the dog lying thus, he had smiled.

It had been a nice smile. Not a sarcastic one, but just a thoughtful, fond one, like most men aim at their dogs. A handsome smile, one might say.

Exhaling, Drumknott shakes his head, and he leans down, drawing his shoes back onto his feet and reaching for his dressing gown, sliding it onto his shoulders and belting it tightly over his pyjamas. His room is very comfortable. More plush, in fact, than he naturally tends to, but it is not the sort of thing one complains about, and Drumknott would not actually describe himself as ascetic. He almost doesn’t, but then he steps back to the bedside table, slipping his secretary’s handbook into his pocket and sliding the glasses Lord Vetinari had given him onto his nose.

Just because there is no scrutiny doesn’t mean he oughtn’t keep to standards.

Taking up a candle and lighting it with a neat flick of a match, he opens and closes his door very quietly, slipping into the corridor.

The Oblong Office and the secretary’s office are one floor down from here, and as he cannot sleep, he might as well continue with his reorganisation of the filing system. This is often the case, once he is tired from something else – he struggles in getting back to sleep, and all that can soothe him is more work.

A sudden draught blows out his candle, and he sets his jaw as the corridor is left in almost pitch darkness, only a little light coming from a window at the end of a corridor to the right. He doesn’t have another match to hand, although he thinks he knows where he’s going.

Down this corridor, to the right, to the left, and—

He doesn’t scream.

The other body in the darkness had made no sound at all, and the flat of the blade is rather cold against his bared throat, pressing delicately against the skin there: the hand in his hair, which is pulling his head right back, is very, _very_ strong.

“I am becoming, my lord,” Drumknott says quietly, “uncomfortably familiar with the sensation of a knife against my throat.”

The blade comes away from his neck, and he blinks at the sudden _swish_ and burn of a match: Lord Vetinari’s hand cups the side of the candle as he lights it, and Drumknott looks at his serious expression.

“In future,” he advises in a smooth, low rumble that makes a shiver run down Drumknott’s spine, “you ought put a lantern glass over the candle. The draughts will extinguish it every time.”

“My apologies, my lord, I didn’t consider that. I am going in the correct direction?” He doesn’t clarify the direction in which he means, and yet, of course, Vetinari knows.

“Down those stairs, straight forward, and to your left.” With the candle between them, Vetinari’s hand still cupping the flame, Vetinari’s angular features are highlighted in stark relief, and Drumknott notices that he too is wearing a thick gown over his nightclothes, but his neck is bared to the air, and Drumknott can see scars that shine slickly in the flickering light. “Of course,” Vetinari adds, “you ought simply go to bed.”

“Did I wake you, my lord?” Drumknott asks.

Vetinari’s steel-coloured eyes catch the light as he looks down at Drumknott.

“Is the mattress too soft, or too hard?” he asks, but he asks the question as if in reply. Drumknott looks away from him, feeling it is a question he ought not answer: it is a question asked, once more, he thinks, to shock him, but it is so _accurately_ aimed…

“Too soft,” he admits, finally.

“I see,” Vetinari murmurs.

“If it meets with your approval, my lord, I will work for just an hour or so before I go back to bed.”

Vetinari inclines his head, stepping back and away from the candle: immediately, he is lost in the darkness of the corridor, and if he slips into one of the bedrooms, Drumknott would be at a loss to know which. Proceeding down the stairs, Drumknott returns to the office, and files for another forty-five minutes just by the light of his candle, not bothering to light the others in the room.

It can’t have been longer than an hour. He is _certain_ it wasn’t longer than an hour, in the middle of the night, with all of the staff barring the night porter and some of the guards wandering the hallways.

And yet, when Drumknott comes into his bedroom, blows out his candle, and gets back into bed—

It is, undeniably, a different mattress.

He sleeps like a stone.

 

[1] This latter baffles Drumknott even now, as the idea of giving up a few weeks of work merely to be locked up in a house with some woman, whether married to that woman or no, is just unthinkable.

[2] He would.

[3] Where some young men might count sheep, Rufus Drumknott’s method of achieving a soporific effect is ordinarily in organising those sheep by their date and place of birth, the colour and density of their wool, their age, and their gender. On very difficult nights, like tonight, he adds chickens, cows, and pigs to the rotation.


	4. Code

When he hears the footsteps in the corridor, he moves with silence, and although it is pitch black in the corridor directly outside of his room, Vetinari does not require sight in which to move: he judges the height of the man in the corridor with ease, grasping his hair and setting the dagger against his throat in one smooth movement.

As soon as he has him, he knows who it is.

He can smell the recently extinguished wick of the candle, but moreover he can smell _Drumknott_ – he can smell the product the young man uses to get his hair to stay in place, a faint odour of unguent that lingers on the air, although it has been washed away and does not cling to Vetinari’s hand where he grips at the soft brown hair; he can smell the lavender of Mrs Jordan’s laundry on his dressing gown, quite unlike the unscented laundry behaviours of the palace’s[1]; he can smell ink and pencil sharpenings, and he can smell _paper_.

Drumknott does not scream.

His body is tense for just a second under Lord Vetinari’s grip, but then he _relaxes_ – he was not, in fact, lying about his lack of fear in the face of death.

“I am becoming, my lord,” he says quietly, in a tone of deferential complaint, “uncomfortably familiar with the sensation of a knife at my throat.”

The surprising thing is not the clerk’s even tone, which he seems to employ for almost everything; nor, in fact, is the fact that he is actually uttering a problem he has with his treatment in the palace. Tyrant though he might be, Vetinari is willing to forgive some protest at being threatened with a blade as a member of the palace staff, especially when uttered with such polite tones. No, the surprising thing, in fact, is that Drumknott _knows_ it is Vetinari. And Vetinari has no doubt that Drumknott knows it is him, despite not having known which bedroom was Vetinari’s, despite it being as black as pitch with not so much as a scant shine permitting a little vision, despite the fact that Vetinari wears nothing that might reveal him in the darkness, such as a unique unguent in his hair.

And yet Drumknott _knows_ …

And relaxes.

Therein lies the most puzzling thing: he knows the figure threatening him to be Havelock Vetinari, and instead of remaining stiff, a blade pressed against his flesh, he _relaxes_ , the tension seeping delicately from his small frame quite entirely.

 _Would he remain that relaxed_ , Vetinari cannot help but wonder, _if I did slit his throat? Perhaps so. How far, pray, does this predilection for duty span?_

In little more than a second, Vetinari performs three actions as one: his right hand comes away from Drumknott’s hair, his left hand[2] deposits the blade back into its secreted place at his wrist, trading it for a match, and he lights Drumknott’s candle, delicately cupping the flame to shield his own eyes from the sudden flare, and to stop the draught from extinguishing it once more.

“In future, you ought put a lantern glass over the candle. The draughts will extinguish it every time,” Vetinari says quietly, and he looks at Drumknott’s awed expression in the candlelight. It is all too likely, perhaps, that he forgets that Lord Vetinari can now see him, because his usual mask of expression is nowhere to be found. Vetinari takes in Drumknott’s wide eyes behind, he notes with some approval, the slight glint of his spectacles in the light; his mouth is quite open, and he looks… He _shivers_. Vetinari can see it, can see the subtle tremor that runs down the younger man’s spine, and it is _not_ , Vetinari is sure, a shiver prompted by fear.

That, to be certain, is unorthodox.

Lord Havelock Vetinari is, he is very aware, not an especially desirable man. The severity of his countenance is not unhandsome, and in guises other than his own[3], it can be said he has made use of the shape of his jaw and his chin, the set of his dark eyes, his brow, but as himself, very, very few have seen fit to comment on it since he was a young man, and certainly no one has since he ascended to Patrician.

In looking at the face of Lord Vetinari, one tends to feel _fear_ , in one shape or another, and while there are those in Ankh-Morpork who find fear itself to be something of an aphrodisiac, Vetinari ordinarily is too much of an object of genuine threat to be seen through those eyes.

Even the occasional bold woman that haplessly offers some romantic overture, thinking of the power that might be afforded her as the Patrician’s wife, does so with terror in her eyes, worried that her overtures might be returned. There are few people that aren’t outright terrified of him. Samuel Vimes, _alas_ , tends to forget his general fear of Vetinari when instead he can be his usual irritant; young Carrot Ironfoundersson is under the intriguingly inaccurate impression that everyone, even Lord Havelock Vetinari, is ultimately a good person, and therefore not an object of fear; Sybil Ramkin calls him Havelock, and writes him rather warm letters, and this behaviour seems to preclude any potential fear of him; and Lady Margolotta…

And in the face of all these individuals, each ridiculous and dangerous in their own right, stands Rufus Drumknott, looking at his lordship with scantly concealed _desire_.

It is fleeting.

Finally cognizant of the candlelight, he schools his expression once more, but it is too late – Vetinari has noticed, and what he notices, he does not forget. Drumknott is not a strapping, handsome gentleman: he is petite for a man and has perennially red cheeks, but undoubtedly, other clerks and secretaries must give him some attention, for nor is the young man _ugly_. There is the possibility, of course, that the boy is attracted only to figures some double the sum of his own years, but he has already revealed an interest in Corporal Ironfoundersson, and the two of them are scarcely two years apart in age.

 _Compelling_.

Vetinari is not the sort to entertain himself by dallying with any of his staff[4], but the sheer novelty of Drumknott’s concupiscence is most absorbing.

Vetinari so enjoys puzzles.

“My apologies, my lord, I didn’t consider that. I am going in the correct direction?”

It is not an unfamiliar instinct. Vetinari, too, sees the soporific appeal in doing a little more work before bed, in the event he cannot sleep, but this is the night of his very first _day_ , and already, there is such steadfast _dedication_ … Vetinari is curious as to the extent of this constancy, and is eager – so far as it might be said Vetinari is eager about anything, as he tends closer to ascetism than hedonism – to test its limits.

“Down those stairs, straight forward, and to your left. Of course, you ought simply to bed.”

It is not an order. Drumknott evidently recognises the subtle alternation in his intonation, the adjustment that forms between _suggestion_ and _order_. His expression changes, and displays…

 _Guilt_.

How curious.

“Did I wake you, my lord?”

It is too personal a question, and it seems that as soon as he asks, Drumknott knows, so Vetinari returns it with one of his own.

“Is the mattress too soft, or too hard?”

And Drumknott _looks away_. Vetinari does not repeat his orders, and it is the source of some satisfaction when Drumknott’s gaze flits back to meet Vetinari’s, his lips pressed loosely together, it seems, as he chooses to answer the question.

“Too soft,” he says. He says it as if it is some failing in his own person, that he not be able to sleep on too soft a mattress, and yet, nonetheless, he makes his admission. He does not, for whatever reason, want to lie to Vetinari.

 _Deception is not in my nature_.

“I see,” Vetinari murmurs.

“If it meets with your approval, my lord, I will work for just an hour or so before I go back to bed.” Drumknott asks him for _permission_. _Please, sir,_ he all but requests, _may I work some more?_

Very carefully, Vetinari gives one nod of his head, and he does not look back behind him as he silently returns to his own bedroom, moving through the three passages that lead him back to his own modest bedroom, which is secreted away from the corridors, and stands very separately to the two imitations that are prepared every evening.

He steps to the writing desk at the corner of his bedroom, and without taking a moment to write out the code, as some of the younger Dark Clerks might need to, he uses the small lever on the underside of his deck, tapping out a message that will go directly down to the offices of the Dark Clerks downstairs, and send them into action.

**CHANGE MATTRESS. HARD HORSEHAIR. ROOM DRUMKNOTT. NOW. **[5]****

He does not linger or dally, wondering if the Dark Clerks will be enacting his instructions, or how they might do so: they _will_ be enacting his instructions, and he has no doubt that within ten minutes, they will silently enter Drumknott’s room, set the feather mattress back into storage, and replace it with one of the harder mattresses in the palace stores.

Settling back into his bed, Vetinari lays his head down, and allows his eyes to close.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

When Lord Vetinari descends the stairs with Wuffles at his heel, he sees that the door to the secretary’s office is closed, and he does not knock: he grasps the handle, turns it, and opens it. The re-organisation of the room has been done already, the bookshelves against the outside wall, the filing cabinets moved against the wall connecting to the secretarial office, and a row of hardwood tables has been set against the wall beside the doorway. Several files are spread neatly over this surface, and Vetinari takes a slow step forward, examining a sheet of paper that has been left on top of the file marked **LORD HUMPHREY DOWNEY**.

The sheet of paper consists of a series of dots, resting in the upper corner of the file, beside the printed name on the manila surface: the small dots are in six columns, neatly separated by a strike through each section, and they are made in several different colours of ink, some of them filled, some of them empty, and one or two of them with neat slashes or crosses made through the dots.

A code.

Drumknott is devising a _code_.

But why?

He is aware of the filing room opening, closing, locking, and of Drumknott moving behind him toward one of the filing cabinets.

“Good morning, my lord,” Drumknott says mildly.

“What time is it, Drumknott?” Vetinari asks, just to see, just to _test_.

“Two minutes past six, my lord.” He does not look at a clock, Vetinari sees as he glances back to him. Much like the figure of Mr Bent, in the Royal Bank, Mr Drumknott has the uncanny ability to know the time precisely without needing to check his watch – curious. Perhaps this is why he so readily has blocked the window that allows sunlight into the room.

“Did you sleep at _all_ , Drumknott?”

As he speaks, Wuffles slips forward, and Vetinari watches as he sits back on his backside, peering up at Drumknott. Drumknott seems puzzled by this for a moment, but then he bends neatly at the waist and gently touches the top of Wuffles’ head, in the delicate way one pets a cat.

“Oh, yes, my lord, very well,” he says, still looking at the dog, with what apparently passes, in the even tone of Rufus Drumknott, for enthusiasm. “But I rise at five-thirty, and I just wanted to set some things in order – I’ve only been here some fifteen minutes.”

Vetinari waits for just a moment, to see if some comment is made upon the mattress, but none is made. _Very_ good. He allows himself a small smile, and he turns away from the code in progress, examining Drumknott as he goes neatly about his business, reordering the files.

“My morning post, Drumknott,” Vetinari says.

“To your right, my lord: I was going to bring it into you once you had had a moment to settle in, at six-fifteen. My apologies for the delay.”

“Six-fifteen will be fine, Drumknott,” Vetinari says, somewhat amused, and he moves from the room, returning to his office.  Wuffles come after him, immediately moving to sink into his basket beneath Vetinari’s desk, and Vetinari takes a few steps forward, standing before the window to look out over the courtyard and, more importantly, the spread of the city at large.

At six-fifteen precisely, Drumknott’s fastidious little knock sounds against the door, and Vetinari says, “Come in, Drumknott.”

Drumknott enters, and Vetinari listens to the quiet, papery sound of the letters being set on the desk, each of them already having been opened, their envelopes set aside downstairs[6], and then he hears the quiet _click_ of a small saucer against the side table, and the liquid shift of a cup in the saucer.

“I did not ask for tea, Drumknott.”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott agrees.

Vetinari’s lip twitches.

“Thank you, Drumknott.”

“Will that be all?”

“Are any of those letters important?” Vetinari asks. There is a moment’s pause, and he hears the shift of the letters as Drumknott turns them to face them.

“In order of rough importance, my lord… There is a letter from a contact in Genua, my lord, that seems of some urgency; there are two missives here, one from Quirm City and the other from Aix-en-Pains, each about an expected crisis this summer with the vineyard crop; a letter from Archchancellor Ridcully, which I initially believed was written in code, but then he mentioned that he was “bally drunk”, which might explain the insensibility of the missive. The relative importance of that letter in contrast with this polite missive from Lady Ramkin, I believe, is dependent on whether Archchancellor Ridcully remembers sending his.”

“Do you think it likely he does?” Vetinari asks.

“I’m not certain, my lord,” Drumknott admits. “The letter does smell quite pungently of Lughaven Dark Ale, but I wouldn’t know about the Archchancellor’s personal constitution. Even if the Archchancellor himself does not remember, I think perhaps a student took the missive down with dictation, as the hand is quite illegible.”

“Lughaven Dark Ale?” Vetinari repeats quietly. “You can identify someone’s _tipple_ , Drumknott, based on the smell?”

“Oh no, my lord, merely that Lughaven has a _unique_ odour – they age it in Bearhugger barrels.” According to the work of the Dark Clerks, his father had been a very heavy drinker, and his temper was often exacerbated whenever he was in a state of inebriation. They had not mentioned what drink he had favoured in their files, but drawing from Drumknott’s slightly fraught tone, Vetinari would deduce it was Lughaven Dark Ale.

“Do you drink?”

“No, my lord.”

“Have you tried?”

“Oh, yes, my lord,” Drumknott answers, without hesitation. His voice leaves his mouth with the somewhat soupy disdain of one who does not enjoy alcohol, and does not understand its appeal to those that do.

“Mr Lockheed, at some point in the future, will want to test your constitution.”

“Yes, my lord,” Drumknott says. “I believe he mentioned that.”

“Mr Lockheed was singing me your praises, Drumknott,” Vetinari says.

The pause is almost negligible, but Vetinari makes a note of it all the same. “How kind, Lord Vetinari.”

Lockheed had, indeed, rather _enjoyed_ Drumknott. He had described him, when he had entered Vetinari’s office the night previous, with some great enthusiasm: according to Lockheed, Drumknott is a “slippery, sneaky little sod”, and Lockheed had expressed no small amount of hopeful approval over what he had labelled the “potential glint of bloodlust” in Drumknott’s eyes. Dustin Lockheed, despite being a very accomplished murderer in his own right, is something of a natural masochist, and seems to go through life in the hopes that any of the staff outside of the Dark Clerks will snap and attempt to kill him.

He spends much of his energy provoking them in the hopes of his conclusion, and Vetinari tends to allow it, as he seems to lack any other hobbies, and works almost the whole day through, with no small amount of passion for his work managing his juniors.

“Aren’t you curious,” Vetinari asks mildly, “as to what Mr Shaw said?”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott says. “I believe Mr Shaw made his opinions quite clear to me.”

“ _Really_?” Vetinari asks, and he turns away from the window, taking a step forward and taking up his cup of tea from the table, holding the saucer gracefully beneath the cup’s base. Drumknott’s expression does not change, except for the tiny flicker of movement at the corner of his mouth. “Mr Shaw was somewhat tight-lipped with me.”

Drumknott keeps Vetinari’s gaze, not flinching away from it.

Mr Shaw had _indeed_ been rather cagey as to what exactly he wanted to say – Vetinari had known that all of the clerks would look upon the decision to bring in an outsider with no small amount of disdain, which had been a very good reason to do so. So many of them are _upset_ , and the actions of a clerk when he is upset can be most revealing. Mr Shaw himself had been all but apoplectic, and struggling to hide the depth of emotion in the face of the Patrician.

“What, pray, did he say to you?” Vetinari asks.

“I believe most of his comments were on the subject of my appointment as your personal secretary, my lord, with the direct implication that I had deprived one of his own clerks of a job they were owed, by rights. I quite understand his upset, although—” Drumknott stops, as if catching himself, and shakes his head slightly.

“Although?” Vetinari prompts.

“Although,” Drumknott says slowly, “I believe Mr Shaw was perhaps unwise in attempting to anticipate your actions before you had put them into motion.”

“Do you think me _unpredictable_ , Drumknott?”

“I am sure you are no more or less predictable than any man, my lord,” Drumknott says diplomatically. “With that said, one can only predict the actions of another whilst knowing him quite implicitly, and I don’t imagine there are many who know you quite so intimately.”

“As my personal secretary, Drumknott, you will probably see more of my life than most,” Vetinari says: it is a little needle, intended for a spot he expects to be tender.

“I cannot anticipate that, my lord,” Drumknott replies evenly, and Vetinari smiles. Drumknott returns it, albeit somewhat tightly, as if he expects the smile to be some sort of trick.

“Very _good_ , Drumknott. Did you fence at school?”

“Never with a sword, my lord.”

“Read me the missive from Quirm City, would you?” Drumknott gives a nod of assent, and he reaches for the paper from the desk, taking it up.

“ _Monsieur Vetinari,_

 _J’écris avec…_ ”

Drumknott’s Quirmian accent is not like the forced accent many of the upper classes take on – it is more than evident Drumknott’s studies in the language were bolstered primarily by interactions in Ankh-Morpork and with the talking books of the Unseen University Library than by very structured schooling at the academy he attended.

There are a few words on which he stumbles slightly, but this seems to be due to lack of practice as opposed to lack of ability, and Vetinari is pleased with the extent of his ability in this area; later on, when Vetinari asks that he read from an Uberwaldian missive from Lady Margolotta, his reading is a little more stunted, and it is plain he doesn’t understand it as well as the Quirmian, but understanding is there nonetheless.

_“… and in all honesty, Lord, I’m bally drunk, so maybe I’m mad! But I think it’d be a jolly good idea, anyway, and there’s that._

_Lots of love – no don’t actually write that you blithering idiot just say the usual with respect and all that nonsense,_

_Archchancellor Mustrum Ridcully_ ”

“Do you know, Drumknott,” Vetinari says mildly, “when you read the Archchancellor’s letters in that charming monotone, I don’t believe the tone comes across in the way he intended.”

“Perhaps not, my lord,” Drumknott allows. “But I fear that attempting to imitate him would be crass.”

“You don’t think, perhaps, a middleground might be reached?”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott says firmly, and Vetinari feels a sense of good humour.

“Very well. No, Mr Drumknott, I do _not_ believe the Archchancellor remembers sending that letter, although that hand seems to me to be that of the dictation quill in his office. Nonetheless, we shall pen a polite reply after breakfast: I doubt he has a copy of it himself.”

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

Later that morning, after the reply has been penned in Drumknott’s fastidiously neat handwriting, Drumknott asks, “My lord, if the Archchancellor has indeed forgotten the contents of the letter he sent, won’t this reply make him somewhat uneasy?”

“Oh, yes,” Vetinari says. “I expect so.”

Privately, as if to himself, Drumknott smiles.

“I see, my lord,” he says quietly, and he carefully blots the page before folding it for Vetinari to seal with his signet ring.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

On Friday morning, when Vimes enters Vetinari’s office to give him a report on a rather unfortunate murder in Dolly Sisters, he nods in the direction of the door, and says, “That your new secretary then, lord?”

“Yes,” Vetinari says. “Why, does he not meet with your approval?”

“He once broke a man’s nose ‘cause the guy threatened the Librarian, you know,” Vimes says, sounding amused. “Didn’t strike me as clerk material, is all. More the sort to strike _with_ his clerk material.”

“Yes, I am told Mr Drumknott’s temper can be set quite aflame in the face of innocents being attacked with neither mercy nor reason. Luckily, of course, I don’t know anyone else with such unenviable instincts.”

Vimes’ gaze, which had been fixated on Vetinari’s face, now moves to focus on the wall.

Very good.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

On Saturday, Drumknott receives a missive from his sister. It makes for curious reading, when the Dark Clerks pass its contents over Vetinari’s desk: Wendy Drumknott advises that he should not take the position, and that he should be under far too much personal risk. What with Dad dying, and then Mam dying just a few years back, she says, she would be struck dumb to lose him too, and just couldn’t bear it.

Drumknott’s reply is no less curious.

_My dear sister,_

_I recognise your concerns, and as ever am grateful for your love and care; of course, Wendy, I think ever of yourself and Hamish, and of course of young Rodney. With that said, I cannot think of a place wherein I would be safer than here in the Patrician’s Palace – in the mornings I wake to the distant cacophony of the Palace Guard’s armour as it clanks upon their morning promenades, and ever am I under one watchful eye or other._

_I don’t believe there is a safer place in Ankh-Morpork than here._

_And even were that not the case, Wendy, I’ve been called upon to serve the Patrician, and therefore to serve Ankh-Morpork itself – I would be greatly remiss were I to abandon my duty when I can perform this one myself, and with skill I have been honing for years on end. This is the work I would never have dared to dream of, and I am most grateful for my new position here._

_With all my love,_

_Rufus_

Vetinari watches the young man as he works at his desk, making neat notes on a naval report.

“You do know, I hope,” Vetinari says, “that every missive you send and receive will be read before it enters or leaves the Palace.”

“Of course, my lord,” Drumknott says agreeably.

“It doesn’t bother you?”

Drumknott frowns slightly, his head tilting just slightly to one side.

“Why should it, my lord?” he asks, with innocence Vetinari is fairly certain is quite contrived.

“No reason, Drumknott,” Vetinari replies.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

On Sunday, Drumknott enters Vetinari’s office at six o’clock precisely, and Vetinari notes the slight tenderness to one side with which he moves.

“Are you quite well, Drumknott?”

“Merely a fall, my lord,” Drumknott says. “A missive from Lord Downey, and another from Mrs Palm – would you like me to make any special preparations for the meeting at ten o’clock?”

“No,” Vetinari says. “Do not try to distract me when I am asking you a question, Drumknott: where did you fall?”

“My apologies, my lord. I fell on the stair this morning as I walked down to the Dark Offices to collect your post from Mr Raphael.”

“Was there anyone else on the stair with you?”

“I was not on the stair by the end of it, my lord.”

Vetinari very slowly gives Drumknott a Look.

There is a certain amount of playful wit he is willing to entertain, when it is just the two of them, as it’s somewhat entertaining in between the duties of the day, but avoiding his questions _will not_ do. Drumknott’s expression falters, and he glances down at the floor before looking back to the Patrician.

He watches the shift in Drumknott’s throat as the young man swallows.

“I shouldn’t like to be the source of tension, my lord,” Drumknott says reluctantly, but then says, “The only other person on the stair with me was Kit Denver, sir, but I can assure you I didn’t feel him push me. The rug had been dragged out of place just before I began to descend, I think: I don’t believe Mr Denver had anything to do with it.”

“Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari says, steepling his fingers together. “Whether it is in some misguided attempt to raise themselves in my favour or not, the result is much the same. Were the rug merely loose, you would not have said someone had loosened it, so pray, tell me, who engendered your fall down the stairs?”

“Piers Meridian, my lord,” Drumknott says, reluctantly. “But I ought say, my lord, that I have dealt with the petty quarrels of young clerks overlooked before – to punish him would only—”

“I would like to make something entirely clear,” Vetinari says sharply, interrupting Drumknott before he can go on. “ _You_ , Drumknott, are an extension of _me_. You are an organ providing a necessary function, an additional limb with which I go about my day: if someone _harms_ you, naturally, they are harming _me._ This is treason.”

Drumknott’s jaw drops.

“You’re going to _kill_ him, my lord?”

“For the charge of treason? Yes. Now, the incident you mention, I presume, is not one with proof, but in the event it happens again…” Not that he cares about _proof_. It’s merely to see how Drumknott will react.

He expects further protest. He expects for Drumknott to complain and fuss that to kill a young man of Meridian’s age, bold and stupid[7], would be needlessly cruel. Said complaint does not come.

Instead, Vetinari sees a slight _glint_ in Drumknott’s eye. Lockheed, it seems, was right.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

On Octeday, Mrs Rosemary Palm arrives in Vetinari’s office, summoned with four of her most-favoured workers, apparently in the hope that they might accompany her into Vetinari’s office and somehow tempt him into a more favourable decision than the one he had made yesterday – curious indeed, that she should attempt this after so many years.

Curious indeed, that this new attempt should coincide with his acquiring a new personal secretary – a young man, potentially easy to influence with a well-placed young woman of negotiable virtue.

Mrs Palm looks almost hopeful as they neatly exit the Oblong Office, looking into Drumknott’s own.

He had expected the young man to be flustered and red-cheeked, perhaps stained with lipstick, his hair ruffled, his suit and new clerk’s robes mussed. Drumknott is the very image of his usual self, and the four women are listening intently as he displays a hastily-drawn diagram. They are a diverse group of young ladies, Vetinari notices, with different ages and looks, but—

Drumknott is sitting, Vetinari notes, on his desk as opposed to in his chair, and the four of them are leaning back against his new long tables, intent upon him.

“So really it’s merely about maximising your profits in the smallest amount of time, and with the smallest client base possible,” Drumknott says, underlining a part of his diagram.

“So _you_ think,” the youngest of the ladies assembled says wryly, “that you would make _more_ money with less customers?”

“Fewer,” Drumknott corrects. “And the issue is not merely a matter of _fewer_ clients, my good lady, but a matter of a smaller client base with more specific interests, less easily satisfied by women of a more general, ah, skillset. Such is the nature of specialisation. You say this gentleman gives you three times’ your going rate, and yet you come away from his sessions comparatively well-rested. Were you to advertise this—” Drumknott hesitates for a second, and then says, “ _treatment_ as your specialism, charging the rate provided, you would undoubtedly acquire more customers with the same or similar fetish. There could well be gentlemen, as it stands, who are too shy to seek out the service, but were you to advertise for it particularly, they might seek you out and pay the price in question.”

“What kinda _treatment_ are you looking for, Mr Drumknott?” asks the first lady.

“While I admire your inquiring mind, my good woman,” Drumknott says politely, “I fear I lack enough free time to seek out any intimate services in the entertainment district.”

“We do house calls,” the first girl says flirtatiously.

“We do for pretty boys, anyway,” adds one of them, and Drumknott has the expression of a deer faced with the lamplights on a coach.

“Indeed?” Drumknott asks weakly, before continuing in quite a hurry, “Well, I shouldn’t keep you charming women any longer.”

“Were you teaching my girls economics?” Mrs Palm asks, her lip curved up on one side. “They were meant to be teaching _you_ something, Mr Drumknott.”

“Oh, I have learned a great deal, Mrs Palm, I assure you,” Drumknott says.

As they leave, Vetinari’s gaze flits back to Drumknott, who hurriedly draws himself down from his desk. When he sees Vetinari’s questioning look, he says, miserably, “Marlene lifted and deposited me here. She said she would teach me a lesson about discipline were I to attempt to get down, and I was reluctant to ascertain precisely what this meant, my lord.”

“They seemed to rather like you, Drumknott,” Vetinari says.

Drumknott gives him a rather sour look. “Yes, my lord.”

Another man Drumknott’s age might have delighted in the concentrated attention of four such young women, but he does not seem interested in the least, and Vetinari does not believe it is some moral judgement on the morality of their craft.

Drumknott, it seems, lacks any interest in women at all, and judging by the sour expression Palm has on her face when she leaves, according to one of the Dark Clerks, this is the eventuality Mrs Palm was _not_ hoping for.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

Monday passes without a mention of Drumknott’s birthday.

In the early afternoon, Drumknott walks with Vetinari out over the grounds, and Wuffles walks with them, trotting with a stick in his mouth and making no move to give it up to anybody, which is quite alright, as neither Drumknott nor Vetinari attempt to take it from him.

Vetinari is aware of the assassin[8] before she draws closer, and he waits for her to come closer, continuing to dictate his letter to Lady Fortescue to Drumknott. He leans slightly on his cane as he does so, although he knows the exercise is good for his bad leg.

“Wuffles,” Vetinari says, when the dog catches sight of her, although the idiot girl does not notice. “ _Heel_.”

They continue walking, and Vetinari adds, watching the young lady shift in the shadows at the woods edging the gardens, “ _yours, his lordship, Havelock Vetinari,_ _etc._ Would you run quickly to that statue over there, Drumknott? Wuffles has a ball stored underneath the shield.”

Drumknott gives him an odd look, but Vetinari realizes this is because he says the words “run quickly” rather than, he thinks, at having to get a ball for the dog. Drumknott walks – albeit briskly – forward, and has the girl launches herself forward, Vetinari reaches out with two easy hands, and snaps her neck. Drumknott turns, his mouth dropping open, and stares at the girl as she drops limply to the ground. Wuffles sniffs dispassionately at her knee.

“I could have called for help, my lord,” Drumknott says, somewhat reproachfully.

“And where would the fun, Drumknott, be in that?”

No fear in his face.

Again, no fear: instead, there is a sense of captivated interest, and Vetinari steps closer. It is cruel, perhaps, to indulge the young man’s apparent fancy when he has no intention of reciprocating his interests, to further deepen the young man’s desire, but it is… humorous.

He comes in close, so that they stand side by side, and then he leans in closer: his breath lingers over Drumknott’s ear. He feels the young man shiver, looking up at Vetinari with his eyes wide, and he wonders what Drumknott would have done if the assassin had come close to him, if she’d caught hold of him, threatened him...

“Quite taken care of now, Drumknott,” Vetinari says mildly, his voice directly in Drumknott’s ear. “Please, _do_ go fetch a guard.”

 Drumknott gives him a sideways glance. “Ought I leave you alone, my lord?” he asks, as if worried he might be unsafe.

Vetinari arches one eyebrow, and Drumknott coughs.

“Yes, my lord,” he says, and he hurries briskly toward the Guards’ Barracks, just over the courtyard.

Vetinari moves to sit down on a bench, glancing down at the assassin as Wuffles hops up to sit beside him, leaning the weight of his body against his master’s side. “A curious young man, isn’t he, Wuffles?” Vetinari asks seriously.

Wuffles looks up at him dolefully, and Vetinari offers him a biscuit.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

On Tuesday morning, Vetinari requests the files on Lord Downey, Mrs Palm, Mr Slant, Samuel Vimes, and Fred Colon.

Drumknott does not hesitate at all, but slips into his own office, and he returns with the neat stack of files. The draft of his little code is now in place, and Vetinari sets the five files down upon his desk, his gaze flitting over the rows of dots beneath each of the names printed on the outside of the files.

Six columns of dots, he notes.

“Oh,” Drumknott says. “My lord, they were more for my use, but I can—”

“No, no,” Vetinari says, holding up one hand. “I do not want for you to explain your system, Drumknott. I would like to work it out.”

“I didn’t do it to conceal things from you, my lord, I—”

“Hush.”

On Downey, Palm, Vimes, and Colon, there is a blue dot in the first column: Mr Slant has red. But not species…

It takes him some time – perhaps ten minutes, perhaps a twelve. Drumknott stands very neatly in front of his desk, his hands loosely held behind his back, his chin raised, the entire time. He does not try to explain any further.

He merely waits.

“I believe I have it,” Vetinari says. “The first column indicates whether the individual in question is left or right-handed; the second indicates species; the third is guild affiliations; the fourth is relationship status; the fifth is number of children; the sixth is economic class. And this seventh, you didn’t have this, in your initial draft.”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott says, _peering_ at him. “But you are quite right, on the other counts, and the seventh is—”

“Lord Downey lacks a figure, so I would assume Assassins’ Guild bounty?”

Drumknott exhales, looking at Vetinari, once more, with that unadulterated awe.

“ _Yes_ , my lord. That was— That was _astonishing_.” Such awe! 

“Why, thank you, Drumknott. You are very kind.”

And it is… _Curious_. There is no especial need for the code, and yet it had given Vetinari some entertainment, some food for thought for just a little while, and he has no doubt that the young man has enacted it for the sake of pure efficiency, that he can glance at the outer part of a file and know the salient details of an individual in just a moment…

The young man is efficient, that much is true.

 _Obsessively_ so.

How long, Vetinari wonders, must he have taken devising this little code of his? The combinations of one dot or other, delineating numbers or vital information, are complicated, and yet so perfectly arrayed, so _neatly_ …

“Drumknott?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Did you want to be some sort of spy, when you were a child?”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott answers. “I believe I wanted to be a librarian until I was twelve or so, and then I wanted to be a clerk.”

A librarian, and then a clerk.

Of _course_.

“Very good, Drumknott,” Vetinari murmurs. “Very good.”

 

[1] Lord Vetinari’s sense of smell, which is quite prodigious within the bounds of human expectation, is made all the keener by his insistence that the palace avoid any unnecessarily scented products, whether these be in soaps, candles, or even in the perfumes of the staff.

[2] Many attempts have been made, throughout the life of Havelock Vetinari, to determine whether it is left hand or his right hand that is dominant. Several scholars and fellow Assassins have come to the reluctant conclusion that, so long as the hands of other people are in the room, _both_ of Vetinari’s hands, quite equally, are the strongest.

[3] Lord Vetinari is a man who requires neither mask nor maquiallage to achieve a different countenance entirely, and once achieved full marks in the disguise portion of a Concealment exam at the Assassins’ Guild despite choosing to use none of the props provided. His disguise consisted of rolling up his sleeves to the elbow, loosening his cravat, and making a heavy adjustment to his body language. He went unrecognised, inhabiting the position of a gardener in the courtyard in which the exam was taking place until the examiner gave up, and demanded he reveal himself.

[4] Or, it may be said, any _one._

[5] One might note the similarity in message form between the internal system of communication between the Dark Clerks and their Patrician and the later-invented Clacks system. The fact of the matter is that most forms of coded communication, at least in their early stages, lend themselves better to language without the bells and whistles. With that said, most Dark Clerks would remove unnecessary vowels and consonants, and often marvel at the Patrician’s ability to send his messages at standard speed with no shortenings in sight.

[6] This task is always allotted to a Dark Clerk named Raphael, who had lost his sight in an altercation some six years ago, and his team. Their duties consist of opening letters and packages that come into the Patrician’s Palace: Raphael exclusively is responsible for the opening and checking of the Patrician’s own letters, as he lacks the potential sight with which to read them.

[7] Although, it might be noted, Meridian is some years older than Drumknott himself.

[8] She is absolutely an _assassin_ , and not an Assassin.


	5. Temperance & Pleasure

Days past quickly in the palace, and Drumknott barely notices.

The work never ends. _Never_.

Firstly, there is the matter of the daily correspondence that comes into the Patrician’s Palace of a day: reports, minutes of meetings, Watch reports, wage chitties, letters and notes[1], economic analyses and statistics, budgets, receipts, requests… And this is all _without_ the very different things that the Dark Clerks bring to Lord Vetinari’s attention, ordinarily whilst Drumknott is taking a meal or getting on with something in another room, although he does not mind this: if he is supposed to know something, he will know it, and in the event he is _not_ supposed to know something, he will not.

Secondly, there is the matter of the meetings themselves, of which Drumknott ordinarily takes the minutes. He has a very good shorthand, and has no trouble in taking down everything relevant said in any conversations Lord Vetinari is having, nor any trouble reading back lines from the minutes when someone asks for a clarification, although this latter seems to make Mr Slant rather nervous[2]. As the weeks go by, he begins to get a measure of the usual rhythm in the meeting rooms, and knows which sentences to make particular note of, or to quote in their exactitude, and which elements might be neatly dropped from the official record, as they serve no use.

Most of these meetings occur within the bounds of the palace, and Drumknott becomes acquainted with many of the guild leaders from about the city, although he ordinarily delicately slips past their notice. Indeed, although Mrs Palm had noticed that Lord Vetinari had a new secretary immediately, as had Lord Downey, it had taken may of the city’s influencers some weeks before they caught sight of Drumknott[3].

Lord Downey had stopped in Lord Vetinari’s office, mid-conversation, and had _turned_ , staring at him as he had quietly entered, moving to set some papers down on Lord Vetinari’s desk.

“ _You_ ,” Lord Downey had said.

Drumknott had glanced at him, not allowing his expression to change, and addressing Lord Vetinari, had asked, “Will that be all, my lord?”

“Wait, wait just a _minute_ , now,” Downey had said, taking a step forward. “You’re that little young clerk one of the girls had her fancy on some years back, at that travelling fair. I stopped her drowning you! Didn’t Doctor Cruces offer you a job with at the Guild, man?”

“That is everything, Drumknott, thank you,” Vetinari had said delicately, seemingly incognizant of all Downey was saying, and Drumknott had given a deferential bow of his head, flitting from the room.

That had been—

Not _funny_ , exactly, but Lord Vetinari had maintained a certain cheer for the rest of the afternoon, and there is something somehow satisfying in engendering his lordship’s delectation, even by proxy.

Lord Vetinari’s moods are curious, but not as difficult to understand as Drumknott had expected. It can be said that the man sometimes has periods of discontent, where his mood is sour and his temper is sharp and sudden, but ordinarily, he is merely a quiet man, carefully in control, and so focused upon detail, upon…

Upon _everything_.

And thirdly, of course, there had been the files themselves. There are a great many files in the Patrician’s Palace – so many files, in fact, that one might easily be overwhelmed, were one lacking a mind like Drumknott’s.

As it stands, he is _delighted_.

He begins, of course, with the ones in his office, but then he moves onto the file room attached, which is the same size as his office, well lit, and has rows upon rows of filing cabinets, all of which need to be emptied and reordered, and as he does so, he adds elements of short dot-code to the outside of the files, following a similar pattern to that which he had used on the general files in his own office.

It’s a simple thing – they delineate what are called _tags_ in the library at the Unseen University: containing small amounts of information, they allow one to gather the information of the most relevance simply by glancing at the outside of a file, although they ought not offer any insight to the untrained observer.

He has _always_ employed a code like this at home, simply for the fun of the thing, and the little dot-code is ever so unobtrusive, much better than printing all the information on the _outside_ of a file, and Lord Vetinari had _solved_ it. Not just asked for the explanation of the unique tagging system, not passed judgement on it, not ignored it.

He had asked for five samples of the coding, compared them side-by-side, and _solved_ it, worked it out like a Klatchian puzzlebox.

It had been astonishing.

It had been _awe-inspiring_.

And after he had finished, Lord Vetinari had neatly set the files aside, smiled just slightly, and asked Drumknott to put them back away.

Working in the Patrician’s Palace, in short, is a _delight_.

The hours are long, and the work is complicated, but it is never anything beyond the abilities of any clerk with a capacity for concentration and an appropriately detailed filing system: Drumknott takes no small amount of satisfaction in his day-to-day duties, in ensuring everything is perfectly set away. He works in parallel to Lord Vetinari, too, he is certain – there are those that require their personal secretaries to assist them in some matter or other, in keeping appointments, in remembering small details.

Lord Vetinari, Drumknott is quite certain, does not need him in that capacity whatsoever. He does not miss a trick.

Drumknott’s position, instead, is precisely in what Vetinari had said before – he is an extra organ, an additional limb with which to perform his duties, particularly in the physicalities of filing paperwork, writing letters, and so forth: Vetinari’s mind, he is aware, is ever working on several things at once, as coaches in a convoy, each on separate tracks of thought and yet performing one unified function.

The assassins are…

They are unexpected.

One of them, expecting to enter through the window at the side of Drumknott’s office, slams rather loudly against the wall, and he hears the scream as he falls, before the scream fades off, and then cuts short a few seconds before seems natural. Occasionally, one or two will be caught in the courtyard, and _twice_ , he has seen come into Lord Vetinari’s office to find a corpse in the way of the door, ordinarily killed very neatly.

Lord Vetinari, Drumknott would happily say, kills people very cleanly, and with a neatness that is to be admired. The only _problem_ with this, of course, is that Lord Vetinari rather seems to enjoy killing the assassins and, indeed, the occasional Assassin.

This is why, Drumknott can only assume, they so easily make their way up to the Patrician’s tower. At this point, Drumknott is well aware of the Palace Guard patrol schedules, and the rarity with which they patrol the stairwells below this tower, and indeed, how easy they are to go past.

The Palace Guard patrol the other parts of the palace that are sensitive – a great many of them move back and forth about the clerks’ offices, and around the kitchens, even past the Dark Clerks’ rooms; more of them move about the courtyards and the gardens, although _not_ , Drumknott notes, when Vetinari takes walks with Wuffles in the afternoons, ordinarily whilst Drumknott accompanies him.

Lord Vetinari, in short—

He all but _invites_ these attempts on his life. He _enjoys_ them.

And that, Drumknott muses, is…

It isn’t something he ought have an opinion on, he decides, as he lies in his bed, looking up at the ceiling. The mattress beneath him is comfortably hard and stiff, giving his spine a good deal of support, and it is _nice_. He had fallen asleep for a few hours, but woken in the night with a dry mouth, in need of the drink of water by his bedside, but…

Now that he is awake, he realises not all is quite as it ought be.

He hears a shift in the corridor, and it is… It is _almost_ nothing.

Drumknott is well-accustomed, after two months of sleeping in his little room in the Palace, to the natural rhythms of the Palace as the draughty halls settle and shift in the night, and whoever it is wandering in the corridors, _they_ know them too. It is a creak of a floorboard, and although Drumknott isn’t sure where exactly it is, he knows it by sound, and the sound goes on for just slightly too long, just by a fraction of a breath…

What to do, then?

Not to go to his door – he’s been told he oughtn’t go looking for trouble in the event he hears someone in the corridors, that he should only sound the alarm when he knows for certain it isn’t one of the Dark Clerks going about their business…

Another soft noise in the corridor: it’s right outside Drumknott’s door, and he feels his breath catch in his throat.

Lying slowly back on the bed, he lets his body go slack, one arm falling to the side. He’d been lying down in the dark already, had not had a candle lit as he’d lain alone with his thoughts, considering them as he’d settled, relaxed, to go to sleep…

The door handle slowly shifts, and opens inward. Drumknott had been advised not to lock his door to go to bed, in case of fire.

The steps across the floor are utterly silent, but he does hear the slight shuffle of clothes, hears the shift in the air as the person moves closer, feels their gaze on him. They’re looking down at him, now, and he focuses on keeping his body lax, his breathing the even breathing of sleep.

He’d done this, sometimes, as a boy. Faked sleep when his father came home from the pub, when he walked into the kids’ bedroom (although never quite this silently), to look in on them before he collapsed himself.

Wendy was never as good at it as he was.

The person comes to a stop.

He’s aware of their breaths, now, even and slow, cultivatedly quiet, because they don’t want to be heard, and when a hand moves out, he grabs hold of the wrist, catching it before it can touch his face. He stares up in the darkness at the body looming over his voice.

“It’s alright,” says the quiet voice of Lockheed, and Drumknott sees his yellow eyes. His usual cheery manner is quite missing. “It’s alright, Mr Drumknott, s’just me.”

“Give me my glasses,” Drumknott says sharply, uncomfortably aware of the muscle in Lockheed’s big hands as he keeps a tight hold of his wrist: Lockheed obeys, though, handing them over, and Drumknott flicks them out, sliding them onto his nose.

“You need to get up, Mr Drumknott,” Lockheed says with a quiet urgency. “Just your robe and slippers will be fine, you needn’t waste time on getting dressed.”

“Needn’t I?” Drumknott replies, but he stands up from the bed nonetheless, drawing on his slippers as Lockheed moves across the room, grasping for his dressing down from the hook on the outside of the wardrobe. Drumknott puts it on, tightly fastening the belt about his waist, and then he picks up his secretary’s handbook and the key to the file room, sliding them into his pockets[4]. “Do lead the way, Mr Lockheed.”

His heart, he is aware, is beating rather fast, but he feels deceptively calm, as if he is floating a little above his body, which is breathing fast and getting a little overexcited. He doesn’t bother to ask any questions of Lockheed as Lockheed leads him down the stairs, but he blinks a little in the lit candles of the main hall, surprised by all the light.

It’s just past two in the morning, and yet all the candles have been lit, when they shouldn’t be until four-thirty…

Drumknott’s chest feels tight, although he feels this fact distantly, as Lockheed leads him down some more stairs and into the dungeons then, finally, into a dark little room where there is a body tied in a chair, slumped forward. His hands are tied loosely to the arms of the chair, and Drumknott sees that there is blood dripping down from his nose, coming down against the floor.

“Ah, Drumknott,” Lord Vetinari says, and Drumknott glances at him, taking in his perfectly pressed robes, his even expression. “You aren’t dressed.”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott agrees. “I was in bed.”

“Oh, I do apologise for waking you,” Vetinari says amicably.

“I’m sure it is no bother, my lord. How might I be of assistance?”

“ _Well_ ,” Vetinari says, and he gives the man in the chair a somewhat critical look. “Call this, Drumknott, something of an examination. I would like you to have a very careful look at this gentleman, and tell me what you can surmise.”

 _Why_? Drumknott almost asks, but he holds his tongue.

“What I— What I can surmise, my lord?” Drumknott asks.

“Quite,” Vetinari says, almost cheerfully. He doesn’t seem tired at all, despite the lateness of the hour, and he is looking at Drumknott somewhat expectantly.

“My lord,” Drumknott says quietly. “I fear I don’t understand.”

“You needn’t understand, Drumknott,” Vetinari replies. “You need merely do as I say. Examine this _unfortunate_ gentleman and tell me what you can deduce about him.”

“My lord,” Drumknott says.

“ _Yes_ , Drumknott?” Vetinari asks, and he gives Drumknott an expressionless look, as if he is looking right through him, as if Drumknott is made of nothing more than slightly dirty glass. “Is there a problem?”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott says, and he looks critically at the gentleman in the chair.

He has been corpses before. Even before joining the Patrician’s staff and seeing various assassins neatly inhumed by Lord Vetinari, he lives in Ankh-Morpork: scarcely a month goes by where you do not see a few corpses in the streets, or see someone drop dead. As a child, it had been him who’d found his father’s corpse – Drumknott had only been nine years old, already an early riser by the standards of his family, and he had found the unfortunate corpse of Jasper Drumknott on the porch step, having been caught over the head by some manner of cudgel. The Watch had never worked out who’d actually killed him, Drumknott doesn’t think. This was before these modern days, with a rumoured werewolf in the watch, and all this more concentrated, more focused, detective work, and yet it wasn’t so long ago. But that had been the first corpse he’d ever seen: his father, a big man brought down to his knees and thrown over the steps, his brains a soupy mess of pink and grey where the skull had been shattered apart at the back, and with one or two birds having nipped at the resulting meal available to them.

He had gone straight for the Watch, had run down the streets with nothing on his feet and the chill biting into his bones.

He hadn’t wanted his mother to see his father like that.

This man isn’t dead.

He’s unconscious, Drumknott thinks: he hadn’t looked up at all as he and his lordship had been talking, nor had the rate of his breathing even changed or adjusted. Very carefully, Drumknott drops into a delicate crouch, getting a glimpse at his face. The blood isn’t coming from his nose, as Drumknott had thought, but from a small wound at his neck that is bleeding strangely freely, emitting a steady drip that runs down his chin and off his bent-forward nose…

He can see the mark of teeth at the wound, and now that he sees the man’s face, he can see that his eyes are defocused, his gaze faraway.

“Can I touch him, my lord?” Drumknott asks.

“Yes,” Vetinari says.

Drumknott leans forward, and he moves to touch the pale flesh on the side of the man’s neck. He moans lowly, but he doesn’t move, and Drumknott presses two fingers to the pulsepoint on the underside of his neck, on the opposite side of the bite mark.

He can feel a pulse, although it is somewhat thread, so the gentleman isn’t a vampire, but the bite does look like human teeth, albeit with longer incisors, and it’s taking far too long to slow and scab over for such a little wound, especially as he must have gotten it outside of the Palace and then been brought here, as he’s fairly certain there are no vampires on the staff.

His clothes are simple workman’s clothes, a stained blue shirt unbuttoned midway down his chest, and light trousers that hug tight to his legs, tucked into heavy leather boots. His hands, which hang down from the arms of the chair, are large and hairy, and he sees when he delicately takes hold of his wrist and turns one hand over that the hand is heavily calloused, with a few scars and burns…

Leaning forward, Drumknott inhales, and he smells the acrid scent of a blacksmith’s forge – iron and coal and steel and earth and sand, mixed with sweat that stains the workman’s scarred arms. How old is he? Forty? Maybe fifty, at a push. There is no grey in his sandy brown hair, and although he has a few lines on his face, there are none of especial age. His fingernails are filthy, and on the other hand, he is missing the top of his middle finger.

Drumknott lets his gaze flit to his clothes again, taking in the smears of ash or charred pieces on his clothes, the blood…

He inhales again, and then he leans in closer, toward the man’s neck. There is some other scent clinging to him as well – it isn’t the scent of the forge, but some other smell – a perfume, all but overpowered, its subtlety no match for the smell of the smith’s. Made from lilies, he thinks.

The fellow’s eyes have shifted, and they look blearily at Drumknott, a soft smile dragging at his square mouth: his pupils are blown wide, wider than they ought be even for a room so dim, and then he shifts, closing the gap between them: blood smears over Drumknott’s chin as his nose clumsily touches against him, trying to kiss him, and Drumknott scrambles back, coughing as the coppery scent of blood is thick in his mouth.

“Here,” Vetinari says, and Drumknott hesitates for a moment before he takes the proffered handkerchief, not wishing to sully the pure black silk with the gentleman’s blood, but it is so _sticky_ and so _warm_ against his chin, and he can’t abide it—

He wipes at it hurriedly, doing his best to drag it all away, and then he drags himself to his feet, reaching up and rubbing almost obsessively at his chin. He can’t stand it, can’t stand the way it sticks to him, and he wants it _off_ , he doesn’t like blood, he doesn’t want it _on_ him, it’s dirty—

“Look at me,” Vetinari says quietly, and Drumknott turns to stare up at him. Vetinari draws Drumknott’s desperately scrubbing hand away from his face, and he critically examines his chin. “You’ve got it all, Drumknott. There’s not even a stain.”

He can still feel it. He can feel the ghost of it, the ghost of the blood sticking to his chin, and he wants to go and bathe in the hottest water he can find, and he can’t help but _fidget_ slightly, but Vetinari keeps his gaze, and Drumknott heaves in a gasp of air, doing his best to relax, just a little.

“Uh—”

He looks back to the man in the chair.

“He’s a blacksmith,” Drumknott says. “Probably the master of his own forge, unless it’s a family enterprise. He smells like a forge, but there are stains on his clothes and arms, and burns on his arms… He has a workman’s hands, strong, with callouses, and dirty fingernails. His clothes aren’t especially _cheap_ , or they wouldn’t weather their wear quite so well, but the apron and gloves can only protect from so much. His boots are expensive, though, I think – those are heavy boots, well-made, and the burns on them are very small or subtle.”

He chances a glance at Vetinari, but the Patrician’s expression is unreadable.

“He was… attacked?” Drumknott hazards, and he puts his hand over his mouth to hide his yawn after he asks the question.

“Was he? By whom?”

“Well,” Drumknott says. “By… By a vampire, my lord. The bite mark is on the left side, just over the artery, and you can see that it’s a roughly human shape, but the incisors seem a little longer – even that aside, there’s some sort of anticoagulant in the blood, or it wouldn’t still be flowing. And when it… when it touched me, it isn’t— It isn’t thickening, like it should be, it’s very slick—”

He feels sick, and he wipes again, uselessly, at his chin.

“And he’s in some state of stupor, likely as a result of the, ah, the bite, my lord. His pupils are more dilated than they should be, and he’s _out_ of it, or he wouldn’t have tried to…” Drumknott coughs, delicately, and goes on, “but he isn’t a vampire. Or at least, I don’t think he is. He’s still warm, and he does have a pulse, so I don’t believe that he’s been turned into a vampire himself, although I confess, I wouldn’t know the exact process.”

“Anything else?” Vetinari asks.

“We’ve tied him up,” Drumknott says, blankly.

Vetinari’s lip twitches.

“ _Have_ we?” he asks, and Drumknott glances back to the blacksmith.

“Is he under arrest, my lord?” Drumknott asks.

“He is _arrested_ , certainly,” Vetinari muses. “But no, Mr Farraday has committed no crime. You are missing a detail, Drumknott.”

“Am I, my lord?”

“Yes. Would you like a clue?”

“ _No_ ,” Drumknott says, a little too fast, almost rudely, and at Vetinari’s raised eyebrow, he falters slightly. “Thank you, my lord.”

He looks back to the blacksmith. A detail. There is nothing, he doesn’t think, in Farraday’s hair, nor in his face. He starts, then, in examining the man’s boots, at their slightly charred laces, the stains from goal and metal on their leather… The trousers, which hug tight against the leg, protecting the skin, hugging against the thighs, and he’s—

Drumknott comes to a stop.

He stares.

Mr Farraday, bound to the chair, out of his mind, _bleeding_ …

And _tumescent_. The bulge under the fabric at his crotch is unmistakable.

Drumknott’s gaze flits to Vetinari, whose eyebrows are raised in anticipation of Drumknott’s answer, and then he looks back to Farraday. That cannot possibly be… His gaze flits upward by another two inches, and he frowns, flitting back up to the open collar.

“Someone else dressed him, my lord,” Drumknott says, understanding dawning. “The shirt buttons are slightly off, buttoned one row down, and then— Yes, and his shoes, the laces, they’re done too loosely to actually walk in, in heavy boots like that.”

“ _And_?”

“My lord,” Drumknott says, his tone bordering on complaint, and not quite reaching it. “He’s— I needn’t _say_ it. I expect it’s an effect of the, ah, the anti-coagulant, ah, if it triggers, also, some vasodilation.”

“Very good, Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari says approvingly, and Drumknott feels a warmth settle in his belly, a sense of satisfaction at having performed his duty as Vetinari wanted. “Although you have made _one_ mistake.”

Drumknott’s lips part, although Vetinari does not seem angry, or irritated with him. If anything, he seems… Amused, perhaps, or merely as if his expectations have been fulfilled.

“My lord?” Drumknott queries.

“Mr Farraday was not attacked,” Vetinari says. “He was left on the steps of the Temple of Fate, to which he was brought over the road to the Palace, as the priests themselves, too, thought he had been attacked, and thought he needed immediate medical attention. Of course, some fifteen minutes ago, I received a missive from a contact in the Entertainment District confirming an alternate suspicion.”

“He wasn’t attacked,” Drumknott repeats softly, and then he glances once more at Mr Farraday’s… predicament.

“You don’t— From the Entertainment District, my lord?”

“Indeed.”

“You don’t… My lord, you don’t mean to say that Mr Farraday _requested_ this treatment?”

“The young lady plying her wares, I am told,” Vetinari says, in a tone of some great humour, “was uncertain and distressed at the extent of Mr Farraday’s dwam, and paid a coach driver to take him straight home and put him to bed. The coach driver, it would seem, grew bored of his insensible passenger partway home, and dropped him at the Temple of Fate, where he caused some commotion, as I am sure you can imagine.”

“He’s alright, then, my lord?”

“Oh, I believe Mr Farraday is having a very good evening indeed,” Vetinari muses. “Although when he comes to his senses, I expect he shall feel somewhat embarrassed at all this fuss and bother.”

“Why is he…” Drumknott begins, and then rubs over his chin. “Did he try to kiss one of the guards? He didn’t…?” Drumknott glances up at Lord Vetinari, his lips parted as he tries to consider this partially exsanguinated, insensible figure trying to kiss the Patrician on the mouth, as he had with Drumknott but a second ago.

Vetinari tilts his head just slightly to the side, as if confused at Drumknott’s question. “Did he…?”

Drumknott coughs, and he shifts his hands. “Does— Does Mrs Palm know about this, my lord?”

“She hasn’t mentioned it,” Vetinari says. “I believe her by-laws do _permit_ various forms of undead, vampires included, although with this incident, I believe we may have to draft a certain… _consideration_ , if the Seamstress’ Guild does not do so themselves.”

“Duty of care,” Drumknott murmurs. There is silence, and Drumknott glances up at Vetinari, who is looking at Drumknott very intently. “Is that right?”

“Go on.”

“Uh,” Drumknott murmurs, trying to resist the urge to wipe at one of his tired eyes. “The… There’s a duty of care, I think, in the Seamstress’ Guild by-laws now. In the event a client is rendered insensate or unconscious due to substance use by the client under the purview of the service provider, or due to…” Drumknott glances at Mr Farraday. “Or if the client is rendered insensate or unconscious due to heights of physical duress. But then, I suppose, she _was_ doing her best to execute that duty of care, in paying a fellow to take him home. How long does it last?”

“Ordinarily, only half an hour or so. Mr Farraday has been like this for at least an hour.”

“But—”

Drumknott frowns.

“How old is the vampire, my lord?”

“An _excellent_ question, Drumknott,” Vetinari says approvingly, and he nods toward the door. As they step from the little room, a woman in a blue dress slips past them, followed by Mr Lockheed, but Vetinari pays them no heed. “All will unfold, I believe, in the morning. In the meantime, you may go back to bed, if you wish.”

“If I might ask a question, my lord?” Drumknott asks, and Vetinari inclines his head. “Why did you call for me?”

Vetinari, momentarily pensive, glances down at Drumknott beside him. Drumknott, who had somewhat forgotten his state of undress, is newly embarrassed when he sees some of the passing clerks shoot him baffled glances, evidently surprised to see him without his proper clothes on. They are, at the least, primarily the nightshift workers – Drumknott does not believe many of the other day-workers were woken up, like himself.

“The reason is twofold,” Vetinari says simply. “In the first instance, Drumknott, I wished to get some reflection of your capacity for deduction, and I must say, you have impressed me. You pay attention: you note detail.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Drumknott says, feeling himself swell with pride.

“And in the second instance…” Vetinari glances back down the corridor, and then gives an extraordinarily subtle shrug of his thin shoulders. “Mr Drumknott, I believe I described you, some weeks past, as an additional limb.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“It serves me well, at times, to be able to speak aloud to someone sensible. Mr Lockheed, I fear, was all but pale with horror at the concept of someone engaging in such recreational habits as these. _Sex_ , Mr Drumknott, is a topic that can render even an otherwise steadfast man somewhat speechless. You, Mr Drumknott, have asked only sensible questions, and posed sensible solutions.”

Drumknott bites the inside of his cheek to keep from releasing some undignified noise, doing his best to retain his _neutrality_. Drumknott! The only person _sensible!_ And he is sensible, that much is true, but ordinarily he is seen as _too_ sensible, is seen as ridiculous, but Lord Vetinari _appreciates_ it!

“Thank you, my lord,” Drumknott says emphatically, and they come to the stairwell. “I will only be twenty minutes or so. Ought I come back down here, or meet you in your office?”

Vetinari’s look reveals nothing.

“You aren’t returning to bed?” he asks in a mild tone.

“If you’re working, I should be working, my lord,” Drumknott says devoutly. “And— Quite selfishly, my lord, I am curious as to how this situation will unfold. Even were I to return to bed, I shouldn’t think I could sleep. It’s— It is somewhat like a puzzle, I suppose.” That is transparent of him. It is true, indeed, that were he to go to bed he likely couldn’t sleep, as he would be kept awake by his curiosity, but that is as much about Vetinari’s reactions as it is about the situation itself, the politics of it… To call it a _puzzle_ is too obvious, makes it sound too much as if he is trying to align his own interests with Vetinari’s own, and Vetinari, he can see, _notes_ this.

Vetinari gives him a look that warns of a forthcoming arch of the eyebrow, and Drumknott inhales.

“I _am_ curious, Lord Vetinari,” he insists.

“Mr Drumknott, you seem ever under the false impression I am somehow trying to obstruct you from working additional hours. Go, then, put on some clothes. I will meet you in the Oblong Office.” 

Drumknott does not run, in his slippers, but in his new boots once he is dressed, now worn in and so much more _comfortable_ than the bluchers he had once worn, he does. He muses, however, as he returns to Lord Vetinari’s office, beginning to take notes as his lordship speaks aloud on the matter, that it is…

He hopes, with some uncertainty, that it is no flaw on his part that he is not flustered in the face of the sexual relations conducted in the Entertainment District. But the fact of the matter is that—

Drumknott, he is quite certain, _likes_ the idea of sex.

Certainly, were he faced with the manifestation of a concept in his life, he thinks he would rather enjoy it: he has been drawn into cupboards by female secretaries once or twice, and not been especially enthused, although just once two years ago, Mr Kytes, a fellow young clerk, had dragged him into an alleyway, and that had been—

That had been most enlightening.

The fact of the matter _remains_ , nonetheless, that the intellectual nature of this conundrum is _more_ interesting than the sexual aspect. There are so many factors to take into account – the response of Mrs Palm, the responses of the other working women, the by-laws of the Seamstress’ Guild, the impact of laws on vampirism within the city limits, the response of Mr Farraday…

And all of the documents therein. Not the actual responses of people, but the _way_ those things are written down, the way the documents should be filed – if this is a new incident entirely, if it is big enough to cause a _ruckus_ , why, he shall create a new file, neatly labelled with the date and the name for the debacle, and by the end of it all, the file will be filled with crisp papers, copies of correspondence, new by-laws…

As for sex, Lord Vetinari does not seem unduly flustered.

Drumknott oughtn’t speculate, of course, but he does not _think_ that Lord Vetinari indulges. There is a certain teasing tone in his letters from the Lady Margolotta, but they aren’t sexual in their nature, nor do they even read as flirtatious – merely teasing, and as letters between old friends. Lady Sybil’s letters are even less intimate in their nature, merely friendly…

And he has—

Perhaps Drumknott imagines it.

But he _does_ think about sex – he might not go out and have any, but he does think about sex, and he does linger at times on certain florid texts he had stumbled upon in the UU Library quite by accident[5], and there are things he thinks he would enjoy, or at the very least, things that make his skin flush and his face heat, and his…

There are things he likes the idea of.

And when he _does_ think of other men[6], they often are… Not like Vetinari.

No, that would be untrue – he doesn’t think of men like Vetinari. He does, however, think of men who are _older_. Older than Drumknott himself, or bigger, or simply more controlled, more discipline – it is the discipline and the organisation, he thinks, to which he is attracted. He likes everything to be just so, and when he envisages some phantom partner inhabiting his fantasies, that partner is equally scrupulous, equally coordinated, or more so.

But there is, nonetheless, something _enticing_ about Lord Vetinari.

There is something in the way he holds himself, quietly graceful and full of internal control; there is something in the way he looks at Drumknott, quietly expectant, that makes Drumknott ache to please him; there is something in his strong, slender hands; and there is, almost shamefully, something enticing in the way, at times, that Vetinari gives him a _look_.

It is not quite a threatening look, not exactly a look that promises pain, and yet it does imply that something…

Perhaps it _is_ threatening.

Drumknott knows that were Vetinari to pass judgement on him, to issue some _punishment_ , it would likely be rather quick, rather efficient, and rather _final_ , and yet still he is arrested at times by the very thought of more unorthodox discipline from Vetinari.

Because _sometimes_ , it seems like Vetinari looks at Drumknott appraisingly, as if he is wondering exactly how far Drumknott will go to please him. The problem with Vetinari, of course, is that despite his reputation, Drumknott is certain, he is… _upstanding_.

He cannot imagine the man setting aside his personal code of honour to pursue one of his staff, least of all _Drumknott_ , and yet he cannot help but think—

“Mr Drumknott, you are asleep on your feet,” Vetinari chides him quietly, and Drumknott looks up from his desk, where he had been stapling together the appropriate documents even consumed by his reverie. The sun is beginning to set outside, and his lack of sleep is wearing on him as the new _drama_ of the day winds down, although he has no doubt it will renew in fervour come the morning, or even come tonight.

He looks at his work, searching for the mistake he has made, but he sees none. “My lord?” he asks. “Have I erred?”

“No, and I should like to avoid you erring. You ought take some time to rest: I expect the tension to renew once more in two or three hours or so. You might sleep in the meantime,” Vetinari says mildly, with a vague gesture of his hand.

“Are you going to rest, my lord?” Drumknott asks.

“No,” Vetinari answers. “But then, there is no Patrician ordering me to go and take a lie-down.”

“Order— Oh.” Drumknott feels himself colour somewhat, and he closes the file, neatly setting it down on his desk and putting it into parallel with the other items on the wooden surface. With that, he stands. “I can keep working, my lord. I still have these items to file, and I need to write up these shorthand notes from the meeting with Mrs Palm, and—”

“Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari says slowly, in a dark, low voice. “I have repeated my desires once already. If I am forced to do so a second time…”

Drumknott moves to his feet, and he steps into the anteroom, aware of the fact that Lord Vetinari and Wuffles are in pursuit of him. The blinds have already been drawn, and the dimness of the room makes his tired eyes sing with relief. He exhales in some relief as he delicately removes his clerk’s robe and sets his boots aside. He lies down on his side on the chaise long that Vetinari indicates with one bony finger, setting his glasses gently down on the end table beside it.

With one last attempt at insisting he might work[7], he begins, “I can—”

“Wuffles,” Vetinari says cleanly, in the crisp tone he uses to deliver orders, and Drumknott leans back as the dog hops up onto the chaise long, depositing himself beside Drumknott’s belly and putting his rather pointy chin against Drumknott’s hip. When Drumknott looks away from the dog, and back to the doorway, Vetinari is gone. Drumknott strokes Wuffles’ wiry fur gently, grateful for the fact that the dog’s _pungent_ breath is facing away from him, and he lets his eyes close shut.

Despite his protestations, soothed by the dimness of the room and the even breathing of Wuffles against his belly, he is asleep within minutes.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

Vetinari leaves Drumknott for three hours or so, until the expected tumult in the city reaches it’s a height again – members of the Uberwaldian Black Ribboners had taken some offence to the happenstance to young Mr Farraday, and now the members of the Seamtress’ Guild are provoking members of the various temperance leagues…

Drumknott had been all but ready to fall asleep at his desk, earlier – he had not even noticed when Vetinari had appeared in his doorway, although he had watched him for some minutes. Tomorrow, whether his young secretary acquiesces or not, he shall be taking the afternoon off.

Vetinari watches him, asleep, on the chaise long in the anteroom.

His head is tilted slightly to one side, his chest rising and falling evenly, and one of his hands is resting loosely on Wuffles’ back, drawn into the sandy fur there. Vetinari would adore to claim that Wuffles is sleeping there simply due to his orders, but the fact of the matter is that the dog enjoys body heat as any elderly animal does, and moreover, he likes _Drumknott_ , who walks quietly and does not make unnecessary noise.

“Drumknott,” Vetinari says from the doorway, and the two of them move as one: Drumknott’s eyes open, his head shifting to the side as he blinks blearily, and Wuffles’ ears perk up as he turn to regard his master. “I have a letter to dictate to you.”

“Yes, my lord,” Drumknott says, and he reaches down for his glasses – so swiftly has that become part and parcel with the rest of his demeanour, little more than an affectation. Already, Vetinari has noticed, their own Dark Clerks have forgotten Drumknott’s vision is perfect, and they each move to hand him his glasses when he sets them aside for a moment and reaches for them. “Have I missed anything?” he asks as he draws his robe back on over his shoulders, and Vetinari’s lip twitches.

He could never have _hoped_ for a young man quite so dedicated to his work, not only willing to withstand the same hours as his master, but _eager_ to.

Yes, he muses.

Tomorrow, Drumknott will be taking the afternoon off.

“I believe the main event will soon unfold, Drumknott,” Vetinari says mildly. “Come – clean the hair from your suit, and we ought catch the mob before it reaches its frenzy.”

“A _mob_ , my lord?” Drumknott repeats, already delicately drawing the dog hair from his shirtfront with a cloth made damp from the jug of water set on the side. “Very well.”

No hesitation: no fear.

And when he looks at Vetinari—

Hm.

Yes, _that_ look ought perhaps be nipped in the bud, and very soon. For now, however, with greater priorities on their horizon, Vetinari is willing to allow it.

 

[1] Some of these are even addressed to Lord Vetinari.

[2] A zombie and head of the Guild of Lawyers, Mr Slant has the unfortunate habit of inflating his every sentence with general Latatian phrases, and is generally uncomfortable with Drumknott’s ability to write them down with impeccable spelling.

[3] Ordinarily, this would happen when Vetinari drew attention to him in some way, which Drumknott did not mind a whit.

[4] He had initially, as is traditional in these matters, worn it on a thin chain about his neck, but Lockheed had grabbed him from behind in a corridor three weeks previous and given him a practical demonstration of why jewellery, particularly jewellery around the neck, was not worn by the Patrician’s staff.

[5] And later, quite on purpose.

[6] The idea of thinking about women is something that rarely occurs to Drumknott, and when the thought arises or is voiced by others in conversation, he is usually baffled and confused.

[7] Even Drumknott would admit, however, that his tone is weak and reluctant as he speaks.


	6. Bite

Drumknott takes dictation for a quick missive before they leave the palace: the letter is to Lady Margolotta, and it concerns additional details as to the case in question, Drumknott thinks, although _how_ , he is certain he could not say. The letter must be in code, else it wouldn’t speak about such banal things as the weather, or the business of the tailor as of recent, but Drumknott cannot decipher the hidden meaning even as he writes it down, setting it in an envelope to be laid on the next coach bound for Uberwald.

He does wish there was a more efficient way of delivering post to places other than within the city – he knows that once, the Post Office had sent mail coaches to some places on the Sto Plains, and even as far as Quirm, but that had been years on years past, and even within the city, the postmen are…

Well.

He doesn’t think they deliver letters much.

The situation has unfolded most interestingly.

Mr John Farraday, 44, a master blacksmith on a rare night off, had been roused from his stupor at some point past four in the morning, meaning that his insensate state had lasted some four _hours_ , and had muddily insisted he didn’t recall a thing as to what precisely had happened the night previous. Whilst Drumknott had gone to the Unseen University Library[1] to retrieve a volume on vampires and their physiological effects on the bodies of humans, a rope tied around his waist to allow him to safely wander the stacks and then wander back, Lord Vetinari had proceeded to the Entertainment District to meet with Mrs Palm, Watch Commander Vimes, and the young lady in question.

Miss Lucy Brass, 72, of a boarding house primarily made up of vampiric residents on Lurkers Lane, had been most distressed that her poor client, Mr Farraday, had been left in such a state of interminable bliss, and had called for a coachman to take him home. The coachman, a Mr Henry Kenton, 35, is well-used to picking up patrons of the various boarding houses, clubs, and _other establishments_ in the area of the entertainment district, but when Mr Farraday had slumped in his seat, Kenton had been frightened the man was dead, and thus had dropped him off, that he not be held liable.

This might have been the end of it – a misunderstanding solved primarily by fines and stern words from Watchmen – if _Mrs_ John Farraday (Lucille Farraday, 38) hadn’t insisted the young lady had nearly killed her husband, who was still claiming complete forgetfulness of the events of the night previous, and demanded she be thrown out of the Seamstress’ Guild and, ideally, thrown into a cell.

“Have you that book, Drumknott?” Vetinari asks as Drumknott draws on his cloak, and Drumknott hesitates.

“I meant to speak with you about the book, my lord,” Drumknott murmurs, and he steps toward his desk, rubbing absently at his eye as he takes up the book, entitled in peeling silver letters, **THE PHYSI-OGLY OF THE VAMPYRE.**

The book, as a whole, had been somewhat in need of an editor throughout – there are a great many spelling errors, and the general rules of grammar, paragraphing, and even _consistent_ spelling had seemed lost on the author, Mr Mortensen, although Drumknott has a sneaking suspicion the volume was mainly dictated, and had been transcribed by an Igor.

With that in mind, however, it _had_ contained the information Drumknott had been looking for, and he opens the book to the page he had marked with a bookmarker, tracing down the page.

“ _The suttle poison of the VAMPYRE becomes morr potente as the vampyre’s age advances… a VAMPYRE of great renown, with many centuries beneath his belt, might rander_ – I believe render, my lord – _even the strongest of men koma-toes. The avrage effect of the VAMPYRE’s bite is but twenty minutes in length, but a Great Ancient might leave his victim insencible for a great many hours.”_

Vetinari’s expression shifts not at all as he waits in the corridor, his palm resting on the top of his death’s head cane.

Drumknott hesitates a moment, and then asks, “My lord… Seventy-two is not old for a vampire, is it?”

“I do not believe so, Drumknott,” Vetinari says mildly, and then shrugs, as if it is of little import. “Come.”

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

It is not unusual, Drumknott supposes, for a personal clerk to ride in a carriage with his master in the event something needs dictating on the journey, but Vetinari dictates nothing to him as they settle on the opposite benches of one another, which are plush and cushioned in black. The outside of the carriage is starkly black, too, with Lord Vetinari’s coat of arms emblazoned on the sides.

In the daytime, it is almost visible, for Lord Vetinari’s coat of arms is a simple black shield: now, with the last of the daylight fading swiftly from the skies about them, it is impossible to see.

Drumknott’s mind wanders as he holds his briefcase, which he had purchased with his first pay when he was fourteen years old, assisting Mrs Gratton the baker with her accounts before the taxman had arrived. There is not too much in it – merely note paper in the event he needs to take anything down, a blotter, an ink bottle, and a few quills, and some blank files, which can serve all _manner_ of uses.

Seventy-two… Seventy-two is not old for a vampire at all, and he doesn’t see how a vampire so young could set Mr Farraday so deep into stupor, let alone to then render him an amnesiac where the events of the night were concerned.

There is something…

“My lord,” Drumknott says, and Lord Vetinari’s gaze flits to meet Drumknott’s, instead of where it had been poised to look out of the window, taking in the passing streets. “This is all wrong, isn’t it?”

“Is it, Drumknott?” Vetinari asks, seeming genuinely curious. “What, pray, makes you say that?”

“I don’t know, my lord,” Drumknott says, and Vetinari looks at him.

“I see,” he says lightly. “Do you play Thud, Drumknott?”

“I know how, my lord,” Drumknott says. “I’ve only ever played one or two games.”

“And chess?”

“Much the same.”

“Would you like to?” Vetinari asks.

Drumknott frowns slightly. It is a rather strange question, he muses. Free time in the palace is not something he had expected when he had taken the position, and free time is not what he gets: he works ordinarily from five-forty-five until ten o’clock, with short breaks for mealtimes in between. These mealtimes are taken in the servants’ quarters with the other palace staff, and he rather enjoys them – he lacks the vim and energy many of the staff take to, living their lives with some cheer in the moments where they are not terrified, but he enjoys the bustle and chatter about the tables.

At night, he ordinarily undresses, reads for an hour or so, perhaps muses on designs for more efficient filing systems or secretarial implements, and then he retires to sleep. He does not know where he would fit Thud or chess into his schedule, or indeed, to what end. Each game is enjoyable in its own right, and quite diverting when there is no better work to be done, but—

There _is_ better work to be done.

“I don’t know that I’d see the point, my lord,” Drumknott says.

Vetinari smiles. It is a small smile, and it is not so frightening as many of the smiles Drumknott has seen on the Patrician’s face: his eyes glitter with amusement, and he says in a warmly indulgent tone, “No, Drumknott, I don’t suppose you would.”

The coach comes to a stop, and Drumknott watches as one of the men moves to open the door, stepping back and allowing Lord Vetinari to step down from the coach. Drumknott waits a second or two before he follows, trailing behind the Patrician as he steps very easily through the people gathered about the non-descript boarding house, letting them part before him.

It isn’t a mob, just yet, but Drumknott can feel the thrumming tension on the air, can see that people are angry in the streets, at the idea of someone coming to a vampire, perhaps, for this sort of thing, or at the idea that that vampire might go unpunished…

The boarding house is very neat inside. It is a small space, but it has the air of being lived in by very organised people, who set chore schedules and stick to them: Drumknott is well-used to this sort of thing, has shared lodgings with other clerks before. There are a few unexpected scents on the air – from the kitchen, he thinks he smells blood, but it’s more reminiscent of an abattoir than a murder scene, and there’s a lingering scent that battles with it on the air, saccharine and slightly dusty, catching him in the back of the throat. Incense, he thinks.

He’s never been in the entertainment district before. Some clerks, he knows, had taken jobs from various establishments along these roads and alleyways, and he hears tell of a place just up the lane called The Blue Cat, which is for men of a… _certain_ persuasion.

“Lord Vetinari,” Mrs Palm says. She has her arms crossed tightly over her prodigious chest, and her gaze flits to Drumknott. “And you’ve brought your assistant.”

“Mr Drumknott is going to take notes,” Lord Vetinari says: Drumknott holds his notebook and pencil slightly higher, than Mrs Palm might see them, and he sees her almost roll her eyes, but apparently think better of it.

Sitting neatly on a couch is a very young woman who looks scarcely older than Drumknott, her hair in plentiful brown ringlets down to her shoulders, her eyes brightly blue and shining with innocence. She wears an extremely tight-fitting red dress, emphasising the shape of her body, but not revealing much skin beyond her hands and her neck, which is long and has two twin marks at the base: this would be Miss Brass, the vampiress in question. Standing beside Mrs Palm, a scowl on his face to rival hers, is the much shorter form of Watch Commander Vimes, and he glances Drumknott up and down as if he’s something unexpected.

There is another figure.

He is about the same height as Lord Vetinari, with broad shoulders and black hair. His hair, too, is turning silver at the temples, and his moustache and goatee, which are a good deal more florid than Lord Vetinari’s, the moustache longer and curling, the goatee little more than a tuft of hair on his chin, are almost entirely grey.

“My lord,” he says, with a deferential bow.

“Mr Avram Burlac, isn’t it?” Lord Vetinari asks. “It is you who hosts the, ah, the young ladies in this boarding house?”

“Yes, my lord,” Burlac says quietly, and Drumknott notes the way that Burlac’s dark eyes, which seem to be tinged slightly red in the low candlelight, flit to him. He focuses more astutely on his note-taking. “This is… _most_ unfortunate. Poor Miss Brass knows not vhat to do.”

Miss Brass has tear stains around her eyes, her knees pressed together and her fingers fisted in the fabric of his skirt, and Burlac’s jaw is set.

“This _harassment_ on the part of the City Vatch is most unnecessary,” he adds spitefully, and Drumknott hears Vimes scoff.

“Harassment!” he says. “Miss Brass here bit Mr Farraday open and sent him merrily on his way, so out of it anybody could have killed him, and she _says_ he asked for the treatment, that may be sure, but he doesn’t remember! So what are we supposed to think in the Watch, hmm? I deal with a lot of _spontaneous_ cases of amnesia, Mr Burlac, and—”

“Vhat Mr Farraday says is not something you should punish Miss Brass for,” Burlac retorts, his moustache twitching.

“Miss Brass,” Lord Vetinari says quietly, and Brass glances up at him. Her dress is made of a shimmering material that catches the light as she moves, but as a result of the silken expanse, catches or tears in the fabric are very obvious even at a glance, and there is a slight rupture in the fabric on the lefthand side of her breast. “Would you tell us, once more, precisely what happened?”

It’s a strange place, to catch your dress.

What would you even catch it on? It’s too high up to have been because of Brass’ bosom, and one would have thought her bosom would have stopped any hinge or pin from catching the dress quite that high…

Tearfully, Brass says, “And he was… You know, he was _alright_ , but he was just gibbering and that, and the thing is, he’d said to me, he _had_ to be home before three and put to bed, because his wife would be coming in from her visit to her mother and arriving at six or seven o’clock on the morning coach. And I sort of… I didn’t know what to do, so I asked Mr Burlac, and he called for a coach driver to come and get him, Mr Kenton. I’m so _sorry_ , I should have ridden with him to Mr Kenton’s, but Mr Burlac didn’t want me out by Edge Street on my own, and said that Mr Kenton could put him to bed just fine. Mr Farraday had never had this sort of thing before, but he was _really_ emphatic about trying it, and he seemed so stressed, what with his wife and all… I didn’t know he’d be affected so badly!”

“Miss Brass,” Mr Burlac says stiffly, “is merely a _public-spirited_ individual who vas offering a service, vhich Mr Farraday paid for, and enjoyed. She vas, of course, greatly distressed by Mr Farraday’s misfortune, but the fault is vith Mr Kenton, not vith us.”

“Have you offered this service before, Miss Brass?” Lord Vetinari asks.

Miss Brass’ blue eyes flit, for just a moment, toward Mr Burlac, who sighs softly, reaches out, and gently pats her shoulder. “It is alright, Lucy. You have done nothing against the law.”

“Yes, my lord,” Brass says softly, biting her lip with a very prominent incisor. “A few times… It has never been this bad, though!”

“And what do you do in your free time, Miss Brass?”

“Lord Vetinari,” Mrs Palm says, but Vetinari holds up one hand. The veins are plain on the thin skin, blue in the dim light, and Drumknott glances from Miss Brass’ gaze, which is on Vetinari’s face, to Mr Burlac’s, which is fixated on Vetinari’s fingers. Vimes’ brow is furrowed very low, and he is drumming his fingers on his packet of cigars.

“Please, Madam,” Vetinari says politely. “Do answer the question, Miss Brass.”

“Uh, well,” Brass says. “I make perfume, my lord. Nothing very big, you understand! But I make perfume on a small scale, play with different complementary scents, and so on. I make signature scents for a lot of the other girls, and I—”

Apparently sensing the beginning of a somewhat obsessive rant, Vetinari breaks in, “Do you? How charming. May I?”

Miss Brass shivers, and then she stands, and very shyly proffers her wrist, which has an actual scar on flesh she reveals. This scar allows for the whole of the bite, rather than the mere twin marks on her neck that barely resemble a real bite mark at all. Drumknott watches as Lord Vetinari leans in slightly, his nostrils flaring as he inhales, and then he takes a step back.

“Ah, violets,” Vetinari says quietly. “So _curious_ a scent – and quite charming, Miss Brass. I don’t suppose you have a bottle?”

Violets.

 _Violets_.

Violets don’t smell anything like lilies. It had been lilies, clinging to Mr Farraday, hadn’t it? He had been rather focused on the smell of the blood, but—

“Oh, yes, my lord, I have vials of everything, up in my room, I can—”

“Oh, I have one or two other questions to ask you, Miss Brass,” Vetinari murmurs. “Please, Mr Burlac, would you show Drumknott to Miss Brass’ laboratory and allow him to take the bottle in question?”

“I’ll keep taking notes, if you want,” Vimes says, and Drumknott gives him a scandalised look before, at an expectant glance from Vetinari, handing over his notebook and pencil. Vimes smiles at him, and Drumknott presses his lips together, following Mr Burlac up the stairs.

“You have not been to this district before.”

“No, sir,” Drumknott agrees, and he allows Mr Burlac to lead him to one of the rooms, which is labelled in neatly painted, calligraphic letters, **LUCINDA**. Mr Burlac pushes it open, and Drumknott follows him inside, taking in the state of the room. The scent of perfume hits him, a wall of different smells gathering and lingering on the air in the room, despite the open window: he smells all manner of potent flowers, cloves, spices and herbs, and other things, too… It is overpowering, and for a second or so, his eyes water as he does his best to adjust.

Across two long tables, a great many pieces of equipment are organised, neatly labelled and with various tanks, bottles, glass tubes, small burners, candles, and carefully-labelled boxes and bottles that are stacked on the shelves against the wall.

To the other side of the room is a four-poster bed without a canopy, the sheets made of a shimmering black that no doubt hide any stains. The bulk of the room is obviously devoted to the pursuit of perfumery: he sees stacks of books on the subject, and although there are various implements that look as if they might have to do with sex in some manner, although how, Drumknott is ignorant…

Vampires can be obsessive, Lord Vetinari had said. Well. _Black Ribboners_ are obsessive, not…

He takes a step forward, examining the contents of a shelf that is filled with signature scents in small sample bottles, and with a recipe enclosed on the back, although the recipe is written in a code Drumknott cannot decipher at a glance – no doubt Lord Vetinari will find it easier.

Reaching up, he takes the small vial marked **LUCINDA BRASS** , and then hesitates. She has set her bottles in alphabetical order[2], and beside her bottle is the bottle of Mr Burlac.

“Do you wear a scent, Mr Burlac?” he asks lightly, glancing back at him.

“Yes,” Mr Burlac murmurs. “Vould you like to try it?”

“I don’t know much about perfumes and colognes,” Drumknott admits quietly, and he takes a step away from the shelf, glancing to Burlac once more. He is… _handsome_. He’s handsome in the charismatic way one expects a vampire to be handsome – graceful and gentlemanly, full to the brim with charm. “May I?”

“Of course,” Burlac says, and Drumknott glances at him expectantly, waiting for him to proffer his wrist, but Burlac doesn’t. He keeps Drumknott’s gaze, taking two steps forward that are so fast Drumknott barely sees them, and suddenly they are chest to… Well. Due to Drumknott’s height, he is in line with Mr Burlac’s broad chest, but he can smell the cologne that insinuates itself into his nostrils, too subtle to be cloying.

“Lilies,” Drumknott mutters, and he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks as he takes a stumbling step backward, but Burlac moves so fast he almost drops the vial held in his fingers, and Drumknott’s breath catches in his throat as he is pinned up against the door, one of Mr Burlac’s hands spread against his cheek.

The palm is _cold_.

“Mr Burlac, we must go back downstairs, I—”

“You are a clerk, no?” Burlac asks softly, his breath cool in Drumknott’s ear, like a winter’s breeze. The scent of lilies makes Drumknott’s head spin. “There are many, ah, men who like… _other men_ , in the Guild of Clerks and Secretaries, mmm… And yet I have never seen a handsome young man like _you_ in the Blue Cat Club.”

“Blue Cat Club?” Drumknott repeats, even as his hand blindly reaches for the doorknob, trying to feel for it beneath his palm. His heart is beating fast in his chest, and he cannot… It isn’t _possible_ that he should be taken aside for something like this, for something quite so inappropriate to the working environment. He has things to _do_. And Mr Burlac looks at him with such _undisguised_ fascination, and it doesn’t feel like the appraising glance of Mrs Palm’s girls, but a look full of genuine _desire_.

“It is a club for the, uh, discerning gentleman. A pretty young man like you—”

Drumknott’s hand catches hold of the door knob and he wrenches it inward, scrambling out into the hallway. Despite his inhuman reflexes, Mr Burlac allows Drumknott to hurry very fast down the stairs, his boots moving quickly over the carpeted floor and making scarcely a sound despite the speed of it.

His usual sense of the unobtrusive is lost in his hurry to get away from being alone with Mr Burlac. The room is silent as they each turn to look at him, and Drumknott feels overtaken with his embarrassment as he gives Lord Vetinari the vial.

“Perfume went to your head, Drumknott?” Vetinari asks, and his hand whips out to catch Drumknott before he can sway slightly to one side, his grip tight and steadying on Drumknott’s upper arm. His hand, unlike the corpse-cold flesh of Burlac’s, had been comfortingly warm where it brushed against his fingers in taking the vial, and the other is strong, and is the main thing holding him upright. The look in his eyes is not one that Drumknott believes he could describe to someone else, and yet he takes its meaning quite entirely: _Say yes._

“It was very strong, my lord. I feel quite dizzy.” It isn’t a direct answer to Lord Vetinari’s question, and therefore is only a deception by light evasion: the two sentences are quite disconnected from one another by a neat full stop that one could easily mistake for a colon.

“Quite alright, Drumknott. Take a moment outside, why don’t you?”

“Thank you, my lord,” Drumknott murmurs, and as he moves out onto the doorstep, to stand beside one of Vetinari’s guards in the wonderfully fresh air, where he can smell no perfume at all, and where Mr Burlac’s hungry gaze isn’t lingering on his skin, he is quite relieved.

Vetinari hadn’t been the least bit surprised when Drumknott had stumbled down the stairs. Of that, Drumknott is quite certain: he hadn’t been surprised in the least, and it gives Drumknott pause as he thinks of it now. He had sent him upstairs with Mr Burlac at his heels, _knowing_ of his position, and knowing…

 _Knowing_.

There is a half of Drumknott that burns in righteous anger, at being thrown into the way of a vampire as little more than _bait_ , merely so that he might get close enough to catch the man’s revealing cologne; there is a second half of Drumknott’s psyche that recognises the neat strategy of such a move, sending Drumknott close enough where Vetinari _could not_ stray.

The third part of Drumknott is a scant sliver of thought, a bare fraction. _That_ part of him, which is thrumming with a hot emotion that is not rage, he is going to ignore.

After ten minutes or so, getting his breath back and schooling his expression back to neutrality, he steps back into the room, silently taking his notebook and his pencil back from Vimes (who has taken no notes at all since he went up the stairs, and gives him a beatific smile) and resumes his place at Vetinari’s shoulder.

“And one more question, for our records,” Lord Vetinari says mildly. “Pray, Mr Burlac, how old are you?”

There is a moment’s pause.

“Vhat?” he asks.

“A simple question, Mr Burlac. Or have you perhaps been struck down by the same, ahem, _amnesia_ that has grasped Mr Farraday?”

“I am approaching my five-hundredth year,” Burlac says evenly. “Now, if you have no more questions for me or my daughters… I think Lucinda should take some time." Brass shoots Burlac a grateful smile, and Drumknott sees the way his hand gently touches her cheek. He can _see_ the look on his face, the general worry…

How can one balance a worry like that, with _sex_? How can one think of both at once?

“I see,” Vetinari says. “Very well. Commander Vimes, perhaps you would like to join me for the journey back to the Watch House?”

 _Not really_ , says Vimes’ face.

“Yessir,” says his mouth.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

Drumknott sits at Lord Vetinari’s left when they sit down on the coach, so that only a few inches form the gap between their shoulders: Commander Vimes sits in the centre of the other side, his helmet loosely rested on one knee, his expression dour.

“You alright?” he asks Drumknott gruffly.

“Quite recovered, sir,” Drumknott answers primly. Vimes glares at Vetinari, and then gives Drumknott a look that Drumknott supposes is meant to be meaningful, but Drumknott keeps his expression studiously blank, and uncomprehending of Vimes’ significant gaze.

“Well?” Vimes demands.

“Well?” Vetinari asks.

“You came in, you interviewed my suspect, you took a sample of her _perfume_ , and you left.”

“Ah, of course,” Vetinari says with a neat nod of his head, and he holds the vial out to Vimes. Vimes stares at it. “Commander?”

“What am I meant to do with this?” Vimes demands, taking it, and Vetinari arches one graceful eyebrow.

“My apologies, Commander. I thought perhaps the matter of _scent_ was one rather important to the Watch’s investigations.”

“Scent,” Vimes repeats, taking the vial, and he looks at it critically, as if he thinks it might bite him. “This is Lucy Brass’ perfume.”

“It is,” Vetinari agrees. “Everyone in that house wears some manner of perfume and cologne. Were there a great many bottles, Drumknott?”

“Yes, my lord,” Drumknott answers. “At least one-hundred.”

“At least a hundred,” Vimes repeats. “ _My lord_ , is there something you want to tell me? Perhaps about Mr Burlac? Drumknott?”

Drumknott blinks. “Watch Commander?” he asks, his tone puzzled.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” Vetinari says. “Do you, Drumknott?”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott replies.

“You know,” Vimes says, somewhat savagely, looking straight at Drumknott and not at Lord Vetinari. “I preferred _Wonse_.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it, Watch Commander,” Drumknott replies evenly.

“If you are quite finished in your abuse of my clerk, Commander,” Vetinari says lightly, “I believe we have reached your stop.”

Vimes gives the two of them one more critical look, glancing between the two of them, as if it might reveal some crucial fact in his case. Evidently, it does not, because he sighs most exaggeratedly, and steps out of the coach without waiting for one of the guards to open the door for him.

Drumknott wonders, for a second or so, if he should move to sit on the other bench instead, but he remains where he is, keeping his place.

“ _Are_ you quite alright?” Vetinari asks.

“He didn’t actually touch me. Just sort of… Pinned me up against the wall. He was very forward.”

“Yes,” Vetinari agrees.

“You knew that.”

“Hm?” Vetinari is giving him a sideways glance, one eyebrow raised in question, and Drumknott feels a little of the indignant anger from before shoot back into him, inflating his chest and making him set his jaw.

“My lord, I would go without the indignity of your pretending otherwise, if it’s all the same to you. You knew _exactly_ what he’d do. And yes, he _did_ smell of lilies, not violets, so _yes_ , it was Mr Burlac with Mr Farraday, and not Miss Brass, and for that matter, she’s a Black Ribboner, so it couldn’t have been her _anyway_. I expect Mr Farraday is claiming amnesia because he doesn’t want his wife to know he was with a man and not with a woman, and perhaps Miss Brass is taking the flack because Mr Burlac’s position is more precarious than hers is, but—”

“How, Drumknott, did you know that Miss Brass was a member of the Temperance League?” Vetinari breaks in, and Drumknott stops in the midst of his outburst, suddenly embarrassed, and feeling very, very small.

“I— The perfumery. That’s not… That’s not a _normal_ level of interest, and you said, two months ago, that vampires always have some sort of obsession, if they don’t have blood.”

“Is that all? Even a blood-drinking vampire has _hobbies_ , Drumknott.”

“But you could tell where she’d had the pin on her dress,” Drumknott says impatiently. “Right here.” He gestures to his own chest, at the point where Miss Brass’ dress had had a catch in the fabric. “She must have taken it off last night. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell Commander Vimes.”

“Why, what would I tell Commander Vimes?” Vetinari asks, innocently. “It is _you_ that has deduced all this, Drumknott. Not _me_. Why didn’t _you_ tell him?”

“The only person I share information with is you,” Drumknott says. “If it’s important. And— But you _knew_. You knew as much as I did – I bet you knew before we even walked in the doorway, anyway. Didn’t you see how she didn’t look at your hand, and Mr Burlac did? _And_ the fact that Mr Farraday tried to kiss me and he tried to kiss the coach driver, but I’d bet you half a dollar he didn’t try to kiss any women. _And_ he’s older, anyway, he’s—”

Drumknott is interrupted by a low, rich noise.  He stares, stunned, as Lord Vetinari, his elbow against one hand and the other with the knuckles resting on his goateed chin, _Lord Havelock Vetinari_ , Patrician of the City of Ankh-Morpork…

Laughs.

It’s not as unpleasant a sound as one would expect: it is quiet and resonant, the sort of laugh that doesn’t carry that much across the room and seems like something that is made to be heard privately[3], and Drumknott is taken aback.

“Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari says mildly, “since you entered my service, you have pointedly and _particularly_ done your best to hide the extent of your intelligence, and that which you understand. I did wonder when the levee would break.”

“No, I—”

“Ah ah,” Vetinari says sharply, holding up one finger, and Drumknott shivers, leaning back slightly in his seat. “Do not interrupt me, Drumknott.” His voice is quietly sonorous and dripping with abrupt acid, and Drumknott’s skin is _hot_. “I will forgive this _charming_ outburst because I’ve been stoking the fire, but I will not allow for you to forget our respective positions entirely. Mr Drumknott, if you _wish_ to, you might reveal all to Commander Vimes. Give me but a moment, and I shall have the coach driver take us back to the Watch House. Consider, however, whether you want the _consequences_ of such a thing. The rumoured werewolf in the Watch, as it stands, will accompany Commander Vimes back to the house in Lurkers Lane, and realize what we each know. Commander Vimes, I expect, will then put pressure on Mr Farraday to sort out arrangements with his wife, and cease with his claims of amnesia if not admitting to his masculine partner; the mob will be forced to disperse in the face of Mr and Mrs Farraday’s embarrassment; Miss Brass, I expect, will put her Black Ribbon on anew, and claim herself newly reformed.

“I do not believe Mr Burlac has _forced_ this arrangement on young Miss Brass. I believe Miss Brass took it upon herself to claim responsibility when she realized Mrs Farraday was going to kick up a fuss, as she knew Mr Burlac would be double the target of a woman like herself.”

“Why?” Drumknott asks, unable to stop himself.

“I expect it’s very lonely for a vampire in Ankh-Morpork,” Vetinari muses. “Particularly when you consider that many of them have abandoned their families in Uberwald or elsewhere, that they might pursue a vow of temperance… Or merely that their families have died, or disappeared. When they come to Ankh-Morpork, they found their own families. Mr Burlac is not truly Miss Brass’ father, nor the father of any of the other young women in the house. He would do anything for any of them: they would do him the same turn, I believe.”

“But— But, my lord,” Drumknott says. “Commander Vimes hates vampires – he says so.”

“Ah, but the most _amusing_ thing about the Watch Commander, Drumknott, is that he hates almost everyone. He is the sort of man that confesses his prejudice for nearly everything he can think of. And yet, he is so fundamentally concerned with what is right and just, and those that are vulnerable, that despite his personal misgivings, he does what it is he can.”

 _He used to drink_ , Drumknott wants to say. _But he doesn’t anymore_. He’s seen Vimes with his cigars, but once upon a time, he’d see Vimes sway in the street or sprawled in gutters, had had interactions with him, but rarely whilst he was sober… And yet now, he seems quite beyond such things.

He hates alcohol. He hates the effect it has on people, hates how they become so _unaware_ of precisely how awful they are being. There are those that disparage inhibitions, but in Drumknott’s mind, it is inhibitions that separate man and animal[4].

“He called me pretty,” Drumknott says. He can’t help the distaste in his voice, the sense of— He doesn’t know what it is. But it makes him feel slightly sick inside, makes him want to lash out at those in his vicinity, but he _doesn’t_ lose his temper anymore, not like when he was a young man.

Vetinari is watching him. His expression is quietly serious, his eyes full of uncertain expectation.

“Mrs Palm’s women did too,” Drumknott adds, as if it adds to his explanation, as if it should make it clear, but no comprehension comes to his face. “I don’t— I’m _not_ pretty. I’m just… small. That’s what they mean, when they say it. I’m small, and they think I look vulnerable, and so “pretty” is the word they come up with, because it’s not manly enough to call it anything else.”

Vetinari does not interrupt him. He is listening intently, but he makes no attempt to break in.

“And it’s worse. With the— With the spectacles, and the robe, which even though it _fits_ me, it makes me look smaller, because it isn’t so tightly tailored. But it isn’t—” Drumknott sees the slight narrow of Vetinari’s eyes, the tiniest curl of his lip, and he adds, “No, I know you don’t want me to wear it so that you can… I’d never accuse— I _know_ you want people to underestimate me, that it isn’t aesthetic. You want them to… To think I’m younger than I am, or smaller, weaker. Is that important? No, I— I _know_ it’s important, my lord. But why?”

Vetinari’s expression is…

Drumknott does not know how to describe it, but it is certainly full of thought, pensive where his gaze takes in Drumknott’s face as if studying it for the first time, and Drumknott feels as if he has cleaved himself open, like he has revealed too much at once, _all_ at once.

“In short,” Vetinari says, very slowly, as if taking care to ensure he doesn’t say the wrong thing, “it makes you seem too easy to kill. Any Assassin would be bored at the thought; others would think it dishonourable to try.”

He doesn’t like that.

Drumknott feels the distaste in his mouth, the sense of _powerlessness_ , and yet—

It makes sense. He _hates_ how much sense it makes.

And—

Drumknott pauses for a moment.

Vetinari had known since yesterday, he has all but admitted, which vampire it was that had bitten Mr Farraday. There was no reason at all for Drumknott to go upstairs with Mr Burlac at his heels, to smell his perfume, to have Burlac come into his space. He could have gotten the perfume himself, and would have seen the _bottle_ , and still known—

“You sent me upstairs,” Drumknott says slowly, “because you wanted _Vimes_ to…”

Vetinari’s grin is sudden and savage, all teeth, and Drumknott’s breath catches in his throat. He stops talking, just stares at the Patrician, and the Patrician leans in just slightly: already sitting on the same bench in the coach, they are very close to one another, and now he can feel the warmth of the Patrician’s body imposing on his space.

“Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari says softly. “Whatever _fanciful_ impression of me you might have, you are a tool at my disposal. I will use you as I see fit.”  

Drumknott’s skin feels too tight, like it’s too small for his body, and he is careful to prevent himself from biting his lip as he looks right into Vetinari’s eyes, which seem to be daring him to flinch away, and he _won’t_. “Lord Vetinari,” Drumknott replies, whilst trying to ignore the specific response his body is trying to raise in response to the idea of being used as the Patrician sees fit, in as even a tone as he can manage. “Did you hear me object?”

Vetinari’s eyes narrow slightly, and he leans in so close now that they’re almost nose to nose: he can feel Vetinari’s breath against his lips, and he feels like he’s cutting right through him with the sharpness of his icy stare.

“If it is _any_ consolation, Drumknott,” Vetinari murmurs, and somehow his casual tone is so much worse than a nasty one would be, than venom would be, “ _I_ don’t think you’re pretty.”

Drumknott feels himself blanch. The humiliation seeps down his spine.

“Thank you, my lord,” he says weakly. “That’s most gratifying.”

He reaches for the coach handle when they come to a stop, but Vetinari’s hand moves with lightning speed, grasping so tightly at his wrist that his head spins. His fingers are warm against Drumknott’s skin, and Drumknott doesn’t understand how there can possibly be rumours that he’s a vampire, not when he’s so _warm_ , so _vital_ —

“You are a very young man, Mr Drumknott,” Lord Vetinari says quietly. “You have a _great deal_ to learn. It would _behove_ you to think better of this idiotic infatuation.”

 _It’s rather hard to do that when we’re mouth-to-mouth in the privacy of your carriage, with one of your hands on my wrist and the other on the seat next to me._ He can’t voice the thought. In truth, just _thinking_ the words feels too much like disobedience, and he feels his skin prickle, feels his stomach lurch with uncomfortably powerful excitement.

He knows.

He knows.

Vetinari _knows_ , and he’s telling Drumknott exactly what he would have expected to hear: _no_.

He wishes that would—

“Yes, my lord,” he says breathlessly. “My apologies.”

Vetinari’s vice-like grip comes away from his wrist, and Vetinari says, “Tomorrow, Drumknott, you will take the _day_ to yourself. I do not care what you do with it, but if I see you step inside your office, or mine…” Vetinari trails off meaningfully, and Drumknott swallows, but he doesn’t dare object.

 “Thank you, my lord,” Drumknott murmurs. He doesn’t trust his tongue to say anything else.

Vetinari glances at him, and then the door is neatly opened by a member of the guard.

Drumknott follows Vetinari inside, and they return to work.

Before they retire at ten o’clock, the whole debacle is quite over. Commander Vimes, with Sergeant Angua in tow, had come to explain it all, to explain that Mr Farraday had admitted the whole thing to his wife[5], that her calls for punishment had been silenced, that the mob had been dispersed, and that the Seamstress’ Guild would be adding extra legislation in the case of legal highs, stimulants, and vampire bites.

Before he’d left, he’d dipped his head into Drumknott’s office, stepped inside, and closed the door.

“Watch Commander?” Drumknott had asked.

“You don’t have to do a _thing_ ,” Vimes says, “that you don’t want to. If you quit tonight, you know, he wouldn’t stop you.” Anger had all but vibrated from him like a storm cloud, and he couldn’t help but wonder, in the moment, exactly what he had been thinking, when he’d been in the Oblong Office, speaking with Lord Vetinari.

Drumknott’s expression had been utterly blank. “If I… _quit_?” he had repeated, with all the bafflement he could muster. “Commander, why?”

Vimes’ anger had cooled somewhat. His mouth had twisted. “No reason,” he’d muttered, embarrassed, mistakenly believing his assumptions had been quite wrong, or, Drumknott had supposed miserably, _accurately_ believing his assumptions had been quite wrong. “Just wanted to make sure.”

Drumknott lies in his bed that night, and he thinks of Lord Vetinari with one hand on his wrist, the other beside him on the cushioned bench. He thinks of their mouths, scarcely a few inches apart, thinks of Lord Vetinari’s _teeth_ dragging over his jaw, or—

He thinks of Vetinari’s hand around his throat, thinks of that steely stare, thinks of Vetinari pinning him back over his own desk and keeping him there, keeping him down until he _choked_ —

His hand is between his legs, his hips shifting, and even when he tries to force his mind to move elsewhere, to think of other things, Vetinari’s smooth tones, Vetinari’s strong hands, _Vetinari_ …

His gasps, even muffled with his pillow, seem to split the silence of the night.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

When Vetinari descends the stairs and enters the Oblong Office, he pauses for a moment, noting something… _disturbed_ in the air. Someone, it is quite clear, has been in his office. He moves with a delicate caution, across the room: no traps reveal themselves, no hidden individuals waiting to jump out at him.

A neat card rests on the desk, and he takes it up.

_10-11am – meeting with Mrs Palm, foremost Seamstress Guild members, inc. Mr Burlac & Miss Brass_

_12-1pm – Lord Downey RE: Assassins Guild Age Reg._

_2-3:30pm – Mrs Junet of the Temp. Soc. (BR)_

_5-7pm – Gen. Guild Meeting_

_8pm – Mr Slant RE: hiring practices on behalf of as-yet-unnamed lobby group (zombies)_

_Pers. Agenda: UU Library from 8-11am; 22 Whistler Street 11:30-3pm; UU Library 3:30pm-6:30pm. Return to P. for 7pm._

Drumknott’s ordered, slightly square handwriting is unmistakable, and slowly, Vetinari turns the card over. He knows precisely what he is going to read before he sees it ( _if I see you step inside your office, or mine…),_ and yet, still, he looks. In neatly-written letters that look the _image_ of polite and clerkly, and yet declare a message pure insouciance, he reads:

_Didn’t see me, did you?_

His lip twitches.

He burns the card.

 

[1] With, of course, his two requisite guards in tow, although he politely requested that they remain out of sight so as not to offset the other patrons. One fellow had recognised Drumknott as a member of the palace staff, but before he could continue with the rant that he prefaced by fisting hold of Drumknott’s neatly tied cravat, and before Drumknott’s own guards could intervene, he had crashed to the ground. The loud thump was followed by an “Ook,” of satisfaction.

[2] Drumknott thought this to be very sensible, and admires the vampire’s sense of organisation.

[3] To some extent, this is true, as Lord Vetinari rarely laughs in front of company.

[4] This ought not be taken as a comment looking down upon the Librarian, a figure Drumknott respects more than most others in the city, regardless of their species.

[5] Or, _almost_ the whole thing, as he had still relied rather heavily on the idea of a young-looking, pretty girl as the figure interrupting their marriage rather than a five-hundred-year-old, distinctly male, vampire.


	7. Flaws.

Piers Meridian is the son of Mr Ronald Whisker, a bank clerk at the Royal Mint, and Mrs Molly Whisker, a member of the Teachers’ Guild and a very orderly schoolmistress. At the age of twenty-four, he is some years Drumknott’s senior.

When Wonse had so _tragically_ died, Meridian’s name had been at the top of Mr Shaw’s pile of replacements for Vetinari’s personal clerk, and Shaw had spoken very well of the young man when Vetinari had spoken with him. Meridian, on paper, had been the perfect personal clerk.

Young, intelligent, full of vim for his work… And, indeed, when Vetinari had quietly observed him with the other clerks, possessed of a _savage_ propensity for self-improvement and, indeed, the improvement of his fellow clerks: Meridian expected much, _demanded_ much, and improved not only his own work, but the work of those about him.

Such a shame, then, that when Vetinari had spoken to him face-to-face, the fight, the wit, the _backbone_ , had all been folded neatly away in the face of his _better._ Meridian had been so entirely concerned with the figure of the Patrician as unaccountable that Vetinari had struck him from the list within seconds of speaking to him face-to-face.

There is a time and place for obsequiousness: the place is never in the Patrician’s Palace, and the time is never in Vetinari’s company. One must, of course, have a _respect_ for his position, if not for the man himself, but Meridian had been mind-bogglingly frustrating to speak with.

He deferred to his lordship on every point; he expected exact instructions, and in the event Lord Vetinari did not specifically lay out an instruction, he would not perform it. Meridian, in short, is a clerk who will set aside instinct in the face of someone else’s instruction, and is therefore _unfit_ for any command position, which is precisely what the position of Lord Vetinari’s personal clerk _is_.

Drumknott had been…

_Different._

Vetinari, in one guise or another, had observed him two or three times as he’d performed various jobs, and he’d been… _fascinated_. The young man, small and ever unruffled, never flinches. It is a curious trait in one so young and so inexperienced, but he had observed it time and time again.

Drumknott spent many of his free hours, before taking to his lordship’s service, on the Unseen University campus, often spending stretches of time reading in the library, and occasionally taking a walk on the grounds with the Librarian to stretch his legs: in the event that some explosion or magical ruckus went on, he would watch it impassively, perhaps neatly sidestep an errant wheel of fire, and otherwise, not make a fuss. In the face of Ridcully himself, who often likes to jump out at those he considers to be in need of more excitement[1], Drumknott would ordinarily make polite conversation, and not flinch even when the Archchancellor bellowed in his face.

The average clatters, screams, and general noise-making on the Ankh-Morpork streets rarely made him so much as turn his head, but the moment that had made Vetinari rather _decide_ to take him on, the very day after he had elected against Meridian, he had watched Drumknott make a delivery to the Assassins’ Guild from the Clerks’ Guild.

He had been entirely hidden in shadow, and he had watched as the young clerk had stopped on the lawn of the courtyard, in the face of some prefects who had caught him up, and made various questions of his business, each of which Drumknott had answered with polite discretion.

One of them – a young woman named Christina Jollop, who is rather too sadistic to make a very good Assassin – had drawn a blade and pressed the flat of it to Drumknott’s chin. The young man’s expression had not shocked or shuddered; his eyes had not widened in surprise, his skin did not pale, he did not flinch or jump away.

He had merely raised an eyebrow, and pointed out that the price on his inhumation was likely not worth the bother.

 _Startling_ boldness, and yet it had worked as intended: the other Assassins had laughed, and one of them had ruffled his hair in amusement, but had sent him on his way. Jollop had glanced after him, but there had been no anger in her face, no fury. He had not, after all, implied she _couldn’t_ kill him, nor been all that rude: he had been self-deprecating in his retort, enough not to ruffle her feathers.

And this is without the—

 _Instinct_.

Vetinari is not sure, yet, the extent to which Drumknott _will_ know him.

A good secretary ought understand their master well enough to anticipate their orders, and Drumknott certainly does _that_ – he measures Lord Vetinari’s moods, usually knows which meetings will leave him in general desire of another cup of tea, often knows which file to have in his hand when Vetinari calls him in. As time goes on, this combination of deductive abilities, observation, and his particular skill at noting Vetinari’s moods, ought render him even more accurate.

And he has his _flaws_ , that much is true.

He is, as yet, somewhat naïve: despite his crisp demeanour, he has a great deal of youthful exuberance[2], has such a _capacity_ for… Hm. Justice, and not justice patiently delivered, drip by drip, but justice overnight. Moreover, this habit he has of trying to pretend he isn’t learning anything, or trying to pretend he doesn’t _know_ things—

With anyone else, it’s a very admirable trait. With anyone else, Vetinari is rather glad to wind Drumknott up and watch him go: there is no arrogance there, no desire to prostrate himself as something other than what he is, no grab for power or influence in one situation or another. He is defined, ultimately, by his sense of duty, and he performs his duty as best he can: his duty as a clerk, to _Ankh-Morpork_. It’s very noble, in a way.

But, honestly, trying to pretend to Lord _Vetinari_ that you know less than you do?

Why, no one else in the city does _that_. Almost everyone does their best to pretend quite the opposite.

And the last of the flaws, hm. This is the least predictable of them, Vetinari thinks, the least he had expected: Drumknott and his curious _infatuation_.

Sex has never been something Vetinari sets much store by.

He had experienced it, in his youth, still at the Assassins’ Guild School: in various guises and wearing various lives like costumes, he had lain with men and with women, had experimented here and there, with one thing or another. It had been… _messy_. He had always disliked that element: the mess, the stickiness, the exertion, had all rather overwhelmed the apparent benefit of the act, and, he is quite certain, he does not feel the particular draw to sexuality that many men do.

He likes men, that much is true.

He’s found, after a fashion, that he even likes to _watch_ men, derives some manner of satisfaction in seeing a well-proportioned gentleman draw off his shirt whilst working in the heat, his chest glistening with a dew of sweat; he likes to go toe-to-toe with other men, enjoys the little moments… _Vimes_ has always been something special in that regard, has always given Vetinari a unique pleasure when he wasn’t drunk, and now that his alcoholism has been set quite aside…

But of course, the true delight in Vimes was always in how off-limits he was. A drunk; a member of the Watch; a man with no _concept_ of what men might do to one another, except in the most abstract sense of the world. Vimes has ever been the perfect subject of idle thought, because Vetinari would never reach for him, and Vimes would never reach for Vetinari.

 _No_ one reaches for Vetinari.

Except for the likes of mad men like Cosmo Lavish, no one _dreams_ about Vetinari: no one spends idle thoughts on him in his leisure life, or thinks about him outside of his capacity as Patrician, barring Sybil Ramkin and Lady Margolotta, and _they_ certainly don’t think about him in a sexual sense.

He hopes not, at least.

And here is Drumknott, always looking at him so eagerly, always breathless in the face of a cruel word or a show of power, and—

Vetinari oughtn’t encourage it, he knows, but there is _something_ to be enjoyed in that loss of composure, in that show of desperate desire. Vetinari doesn’t want to touch Drumknott, doesn’t want to touch anybody, but he can’t help but enjoy when Drumknott _shivers_ the way that he does, when he reacts so splendidly to something Vetinari has said, when he is usually so self-possessed.

And so _precocious_. There isn’t another person in the Patrician’s Palace who would think of Vetinari and then _provoke_ him, merely for the pleasure of his potential retort. Margolotta would, that much is true, but not like _this_.

A curiosity, certainly.

Vetinari stands from his desk, glancing out of the window over the palace. It is some fifteen minutes before eight, and no doubt Drumknott has already left via the servants’ entrance at the back of the palace, and is moving in the direction of the Unseen University campus, that he might spend a few hours in the library.

He hears young Meridian, who is _filling in_ for Drumknott today, in the corridor, and he sighs quietly, not bothering to turn as the little knock comes to the door.

“My lord,” Meridian says, and even as he _stands_ , Vetinari can hear the frustrating shift of his clerk’s robe against his suit, where he isn’t standing still enough. “I have six letters for you.”

“Are any of them important?” Vetinari asks idly.

“I’m sure it’s not my place to decide, my lord,” Meridian answers, but Vetinari can hear the _real_ answer in between the lines: _I’m sure I don’t know, and I wouldn’t know how to guess_.

“I see,” Vetinari says. “You had best bring them in, Mr Meridian. And a cup of tea, if you would.”

The cup of tea is plain, and weakly-made.

He doesn’t drink a drop.  

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

Drumknott neatly closes the book he had been reading[3], and he walks neatly back between the stacks of the library, holding the book neatly against his chest and setting it down on the shelf. It’s been… an _odd_ day.

He’s spent the majority of the day in the Unseen University Library, but for the few hours he took to visit his sister and her husband, and he finds he’s rather missed the quiet rhythms of the books as they breathe and mutter about him, missed the natural _order_ of things. Once or twice, a wizard had disturbed him, wandering past lightly smoking or muttering to himself, but beyond such things as that, he’d mostly settled to himself, curling up in an armchair in a reading nook and reading idly.

After four months of working in the Patrician’s Palace, not taking so much as a few hours to himself beyond to sleep and to relax before bed, it had been _odd_ to have an entire day to fill.

Hamish and Wendy had been glad to see him, and vice versa, but he had been just as glad to take his leave again, when the conversation had turned naturally to his appointment to the Patrician’s staff, and Wendy had taken it upon herself to try to get him to quit again.

_(“Oh, Rufus, please! I thought the point of being a clerk was that you’d be safe, not surrounded by Assassins—”_

_“Like I would have been at the Assassins’ Guild.”_

_“Or all the powerful people in the city—”_

_“Like I would have been staying in the Clerks’ Guild.”_

_“Or—”_

_“Wendy.”)_

And she’d tried to get him to stay for the evening, too, but—

He loves his sister.

He loves her, he really does. She’s a caring woman, far more caring than she needs to be, for _anybody_ , but Drumknott has never especially enjoyed being cared for, not like that. He’s never wanted someone fussing over how much he eats or trying to keep him out of harm’s way: he’s always been independently minded, always preferred to keep himself to himself.

And Wendy, Gods, but she doesn’t _nag_ at times, trying to get him to do this job or that job, trying to get him to try this diet or that device, trying to get him to _marry_ some girl.

Small doses of his dear sister are quite enough.

“Ook?” asks the Librarian as Drumknott comes back toward the desk, and Drumknott neatly takes his cloak up from the stand beside the Librarian’s desk, which has a few scarfs hanging from it, a hat that Drumknott has never seen anybody wear, and a bag of bananas the Bursar had brought in earlier.

“I’m just going to walk home now,” Drumknott says.

The Librarian looks at him for a moment, his head tilting to the side, and Drumknott looks at the distinctly un-orang-utan slyness in his eyes.

“Yes,” he says. “To the Palace.”

“ _Ook_ ,” the orang-utan says, with some apparent amusement, and he knuckles toward the stand, dragging down one of the scarves and then pulling out a banana from the sack. Hesitating a moment, he offers it to Drumknott, but Drumknott politely shakes his head and, shrugging, the Librarian winds the scarf around his neck, falling into step with him as he makes his way out of the library.

Drumknott feels himself smile slightly as he huddles in his cloak: he _likes_ the Librarian.  Since he can remember going to the Library on a quiet afternoon, he has known the Librarian as a kindly orang-utan: simple, no-nonsense, with a very sensible attitude to most things.

There are points, naturally, upon which they diverge.

Drumknott has never put much store by a diet made up of nuts and fruits; nor indeed would he so much as dream of sleeping in a hammock, let alone have one of his own making, from which he might occasionally hang, upside-down.

With that said, on many things, they _do_ agree. The Librarian has a sense of what is proper and what is right in the world: he believes books ought be shelved and neatly organised, believes in an up-to-date filing system, believes in _respecting_ books, and, in all honesty, speaks quite eloquently, when one has the hang of the particular rhythms of his speech.

“Ook,” the orang-utan says lightly as he locks the door to the UU Library behind them.

“You don’t have to, you know,” Drumknott says mildly. Since Drumknott had been a very young man, about nine, the Librarian would occasionally take it upon himself to walk him home, particularly when it was after dark and it was no time for a boy of Drumknott’s small size to be wandering the city streets without, at the very least, other boys to back him up. The fact that Drumknott is now twenty years old, and a good deal less small than he had been[4], seems not to occur to the Librarian. “Walk me home, I mean. I’m sure there are guards tracking my movements.”

“Ooo _ook_ ,” the Librarian says.

“Well, by definition, Mr Librarian, they _are_ professionals. I do believe they take a wage.” The orang-utan lets out a sound that is somewhat like a scoff, and they begin to walk away from the Library building.

“What! You!” Archchancellor Ridcully barks, pointing his finger into Drumknott’s face as they come onto the main corps of the campus, and Drumknott examines the finger somewhat dispassionately[5], and then looks up into the face of the Archchancellor himself.

“Rufus Drumknott, Archchancellor,” Drumknott says. “I—”

“I know who you are! What are you doing here!? Where’s Vetinari?” Jumping into the air and spinning on his feet, Ridcully faces in the other direction, as if hoping to have caught Ankh-Morpork’s Patrician hovering behind his shoulder. No such Patrician to be found, he turns back to level a suspicious look at Drumknott.

“It’s my day off, sir,” Drumknott says patiently. “I expect the Patrician is back at the Palace.”

“Oh,” the Archchancellor says, rubbing at his chin through the prodigious amount of beard there. “And you’ve been in the Library, what? How long have you been coming here, Drumknott?”

“Eleven years, sir.”

“Ho! We ought to make you a wizard! Not a proper one, if you didn’t have the magic, but you could probably do one or two things, er, about the place, do some clerkly things, but with a bit of _style_ …”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Why not? You read an awful lot of those _damned_ books, and you certainly seem to do well for yourself in the Library, fending— And, you know, a lot of these young lads don’t know what side their bread is buttered on, but you, lad, you’ve always understood authority… It’s a _marvellous_ idea, Drumknott, I should—” As Ridcully goes on, Drumknott glances down to the Librarian, whose great brow is furrowed as if in careful thought. Patiently, Drumknott waits for the torrent of outspoken talk about how none of the wizards respect real magic anymore, and none of them study as much as Drumknott does, and anyway, Ridcully knows Drumknott isn’t much of a man for the outdoors, but he can bally well learn, and then, “So why _shouldn’t_ you be a wizard, eh?”

“I can’t grow a beard, Archchancellor,” Drumknott says.

“Oh,” the Archchancellor said, and the wind goes quite of his sails. “What a shame! You know, Drumknott, if we got some sort of unguent and—”

“Archchancellor,” Drumknott says hurriedly, not especially wanting to have the Archchancellor trying to slap a beard-growing cream over his chin and cheeks, or whatever else he’s about to suggest, “I’m expected at the Palace, and I really must get back.”

“But I—”

“ _Ook_ ,” the orang-utan says firmly, looking rather bored, and the Archchancellor huffs.

“Oh, very _well_ ,” he retorts, and he turns on his heel, walking away, and Drumknott shakes his head slightly as he and the Librarian begin to move across the campus again, toward the great gates of the Unseen University’s entrance.

“Oooook,” the Librarian says conversationally.

“You might be right,” Drumknott answers quietly. “I’m sure I should be quite flattered, but I don’t think I’d be cut out for wizardry. I enjoy being a clerk. Wizardry is so… _disorganized_ at times. Not you, of course, but…”

“Ook,” the Librarian agrees, with a vague gesture of one gigantic hand, and Drumknott listens to the quiet click of his boots on the cobblestones as they make their way back toward the Palace. “OooOok?”

“Oh, yes, immensely,” Drumknott answers. “Lord Vetinari is a dream, really: I’m never short of work to be getting on with, and he’s let me reorganise all the files according to my own system.”

 _“Ook_ ,” the Librarian says. Unlike most, who would perhaps be baffled at the significance of such a kind gesture from an employer, he nods with some approval, an expression of stout agreement on his face. _Yes_ , that face says. _Yes, that would be more than satisfactory_. “Oo… Ook?”

Drumknott does not allow his face to change. He keeps it entirely neutral, his gaze forward.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says stolidly.

“Ook.”

“Well, nobody’s tried to kill _me_.”

“ _Ook_.”

“What do you mean, not yet?”

“Ook.”

“It does not _stand to reason_.”

The orang-utan blows air between his thick lips, making a rather dismissive noise, and Drumknott shakes his head slightly, reaching up to push his glasses up his nose.

“Ook?”

“No,” Drumknott lies. “It’s just that I’m getting a little short-sighted, that’s all. I’m alright with books and files, but I started noticing that signs and people far away were getting difficult to see, and then it just… Got worse.”

Most people in Drumknott’s life had not questioned the addition of the glasses to his day-to-day wear: in honesty, most people had not noticed. This is not to say that the people that had always known him did not notice things about him – despite the natural unobtrusiveness of his movements as a clerk, Drumknott was a perfectly memorable individual in his personal life, albeit a dry and boring individual. No, the difficulty people had in noticing the glasses was, instead, that Drumknott simply had the look of someone who _ought_ wear glasses. Small, with wide eyes and a quietly pensive air, often wearing neatly pressed trousers and fastidiously shined shoes, the average person naturally associated him with glasses, despite his never wearing them.

Even Archchancellor Ridcully had looked at Drumknott’s face, seen the glasses, and naturally assumed he had always had them, just that he had simply not taken notice of them before.

“Ook,” the orang-utan says, with some sardonic doubt, and then he tightens the scarf around his neck. “Ook.”

“At least it isn’t raining,” Drumknott murmurs in reply, and his gaze flits to two individuals walking up the street toward them. The figure of Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson is unmistakable: his breastplate is polished to a sheen in the lamplight of the early evening, and he _is_ six foot six. Drumknott can’t quite help the way his mouth goes slightly dry as he looks up at him. Beside him, much smaller and much less—

Well, less _everything_ , is Corporal Nobby Nobbs.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Drumknott says politely.

“Ook,” the orang-utan adds, with a strange, slow movement of an arm that could barely be counted as a salute.

“Good evening, Mr Drumknott,” Carrot says cheerfully. “How are Wendy and Hamish?”

“Very well, thank you,” Drumknott answers. “Rodney is growing very big. Rather too big, actually, to sit on his poor uncle’s knee, although he was not to be convinced of this fact.”

Carrot smiles, and Drumknott feels his heart flutter slightly. It is difficult to define exactly what it is about Carrot Ironfoundersson, as Drumknott usually finds himself idly thinking of men that might be described as variations of “terrible” and “dangerous”, but Carrot is—

Well.

He’s Captain _Carrot_.

“You two going to the pub?” Nobbs asks.

“The Librarian is walking me back to the Palace,” Drumknott answers.

“Ook. OohOOk,” the Librarian adds, and Drumknott’s lip twitches in amusement, but neither of the Watchmen seem to understand. It is no wonder, Drumknott muses, that the Librarian’s temper is so short at times. Drumknott’s temper had been a lot shorter, once upon a time, too.

In the fact of the respectively blank expressions of Nobbs and Carrot, he translates, “He’s going to go to the Drum afterwards. He says it’s a very good night for it.”

“Worried to walk home on your own, are ya?” Nobbs asks, leering slightly in what Drumknott supposes is meant to be a teasing way, but only succeeds in giving a rather grim depiction of Nobbs’ teeth.

“Why should I be worried, Corporal Nobbs?”

“Well,” Nobbs says, with a shrug of lopsided shoulders. “You’re only little.”

Drumknott does not let his expression change. It remains fixated on Nobbs, his eyes rather cold behind the glass of his spectacles – and he is looking _down_ at Nobbs, who is a great deal shorter than even the shortest of the humans in the city, let alone _Drumknott_. His mouth, his jaw, his expression, all remain the same, but one might say that something subtle, something subtly awful, changes in the glint of his eyes.

After a moment, Nobbs falters slightly, and he takes a step back.

“Gods,” he mutters, shaking off his head like a dog trying to dry itself off. “D’you learn that look off the Patrician?”

“Good evening, Captain Carrot,” Drumknott says, somewhat icily. “Corporal Nobbs.”

“Good evening, Mr Drumknott, Mr Librarian,” Carrot replies cheerfully, and they move toward the Palace, which is only a little ways away, now.

“Ook,” the Librarian says. “Ook?”

“Not especially,” Drumknott says. “It’s been rather a strange day, actually. It’s gone past very slowly, and I don’t think I’ll be able to go to bed at my usual hour, not when I’ve done so little actual _work_. Are you tired?”

“Ook.”

“Well, why are you going to the pub, then?”

“Ook!”

Drumknott feels himself smile. He doesn’t like pubs, and he certainly doesn’t like _drunks_ , but the Librarian has never gotten so drunk as to be obnoxious, not in Drumknott’s presence, and he _does_ appreciate the need for some form of routine.

Almost absently, he thinks of the Blue Cat Club, over in the Entertainment District.

“Good night, Mr Librarian,” he says quietly. “Thank you for walking me back.”

“Ook,” the orang-utan replies.

“Yes, on my next afternoon off,” Drumknott promises, and he nods to the Librarian before moving to the gatehouse and making his way up to the Palace. He enters through the servants’ entrance, coming straight into the kitchen and hanging his cloak up.

“Oh, Mr Drumknott!” Stebbins says. “I didn’t think we’d see you again today!”

“Didn’t you want to stay at your sister’s for dinner?” asks Mrs Dipplock as she takes a pile of darning from the chair beside her and clears a space for him.

“Oh, no,” Drumknott says, shaking his head slightly as he sinks into the seat. It’s wonderfully warm in the kitchen compared to outside, and he leans back in his chair slightly, feeling the heat settle pleasantly on his cold cheeks, and he sets his hands between his knees so that they’ll warm up quicker. “I was in the UU Library until a few minutes ago.”

“You didn’t walk back here on your own, did you?” asks young Millie Easy, looking horrified, and Drumknott smiles slightly, shaking his head.

“No, the Librarian walked me back,” Drumknott answers, passing his plate up to Mrs Heavens.

“The monkey?” asks one of the stable boys – Patrick.

“He isn’t a monkey,” Drumknott says. “He’s an ape. An orang-utan, actually.”

“What’s the difference?” asks the other one - George.

“Well,” Drumknott muses. “There are a few differences. The prevailing one, of course, is that the word “monkey” will send the Librarian into a potentially homicidal frenzy; the word “ape” is neatly accepted.” The two young men share an uncertain look, and Drumknott takes his plate back from Mrs Heavens with a small smile.

He muses, as they all settle into their meals, that Lord Vetinari hadn’t called for him.

He hadn’t expected the Patrician to call for him, necessarily, but he _had_ crept into the Patrician’s office and left the card with his schedule, and what he’d written on the back… Well, it _had_ been very cheeky, but he hopes that it had made the Patrician laugh rather than annoy him, he hopes—

He rather likes the idea of making the Patrician laugh again.

He keeps thinking of the way Vetinari had laughed in the coach, now _good_ he’d looked, with laughter pulling at his lips and crinkling his eyes, his head tipped back… And it’s not really the point, that Lord Vetinari isn’t actually interested in him, because most men aren’t, it isn’t…

He feels a little burst of embarrassed shame, and he wonders if he _should_ go out, somewhere.

To the Entertainment District, perhaps, and he could glance into the Blue Cat Club, just _glance_ inside, except that… Well. The Patrician had _said_ , hadn’t he, that the businesses he chooses to patronise will be seen as related to the Patrician himself, that he ought be careful about where he goes, but…

Surely, the club must be _discreet_.

It would hardly do to be spreading the names of all its members about the city, would it?

All the same…

He muses on it, throughout dinner. He can’t quite shake the thought.

Particularly not when Vetinari had told him, all but _ordered_ him, to stop thinking about—

And he does feel guilty. Lord Vetinari is his employer, after all, is meant to be object of respect. Not of—

Not of other things.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

 The sun has set, and Vetinari’s head is aching.

He gets these headaches, from time to time – it is not a migraine, which is something to be grateful for, but the throbbing pain in the side of his head is doing him no favours, and he pinches the bridge of his nose slightly as he closes his eyes. He will not be able to read any more of the neat scrawl of Mr Juniper’s handwriting this evening, as _revealing_ as his testimony is, and he shall simply have to return to it tomorrow.

He hears footsteps in the corridor, not quite able to concentrate on them, and then there is a fastidious knock on his door.

“Yes?” he asks, and the door opens.

Meridian is much taller than Drumknott. Tall, handsome, with a cleft in his chin, and a shock of neatly coiffed blond hair. He wears a scowl on his expression, scarcely disguised by his attempt at a neutral expression. “Mr Drumknott to see you, my lord,” he says, and then, with some eagerness, “Shall I send him away?”

“ _No_ , Meridian,” Vetinari replies, ignoring the spark of agony that throbs dully through his skull. “Send him in.”

Meridian’s expression sours further, and he hears him walk away: the door opens further, and Drumknott lingers on the very threshold of the room, not yet stepping inside.

“You _may_ enter, Drumknott,” Vetinari says, and then adds, “I believe your sentence has reached a satisfactory end.”

Drumknott neatly steps inside, closing the door behind him. Taking a few steps forward, he steps in front of Lord Vetinari’s desk, and he looks at him for just a moment, his eyes settling on Vetinari’s face. Vetinari watches the minimal shift of his expression, the ever-so-slight furrow of his eyebrows, the infinitesimal narrowing of his brown eyes.

“Would you like to me to fetch you an analgesic for your headache, my lord?” Drumknott asks. It is a neatly strategized motion, Vetinari muses: a few days ago, Drumknott would have merely asked if he could get _something_ for him, upon noting the tell-tale signs in the Patrician’s demeanour[6]. Now, he is specific: he admits to the knowledge he has.

“No, thank you, Drumknott,” Vetinari murmurs. “Is that why you have come here on your day’s leave?”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott says, and he takes another step toward the desk, a little closer: his hands are neatly held before his belly, and Vetinari glances at his fingers, but they don’t twitch or move, don’t reveal anything. He is too carefully controlled for that. “When I first took this position, my lord, you pointed out that the businesses I choose to patronise reflect on your lordship, and on the Palace itself.”

This is—

 _Curious_.

Vetinari leans back slightly in his seat, examining Drumknott’s careful composure, and yet he sees the slightest show of colour in his already red cheeks, sees his lips part slightly as he rehearses his sentence inwardly before he says it: “I wished to ask your lordship’s permission before I…” Drumknott trails off for a moment, and then he redrafts, “I was going to out again, my lord.”

 _Ah_. Evidently, their little foray into Lurkers Lane has left its mark on Drumknott. Vetinari has entered the Blue Cat Club, on occasions previous, never, of course, as _himself_ … There had been enjoyable aspects to it. The gyration of the dancers, the somewhat free nature of the environment…

He cannot quite imagine Drumknott, a fresh-faced young man lacking any capacity for extroversion, fitting in all that well. The idea… _grates_ on him, even. Various men of the Blue Cat Club fawning over him, intimidating him, perhaps, and Drumknott’s cultivated lack of perturbation being made to stutter…

It’s a curiously unpleasant mental image. Rendering Drumknott flustered himself, or orchestrating the event, is satisfying, to some extent. The idea of Drumknott alone in the Entertainment District, flustered by others, is…

 _Less so_.

“ _Really_?” Vetinari asks. “Why, one day off has made a libertine of you, Drumknott.” Drumknott stares at him, affronted, and Vetinari holds up one finger before he can reply. “Merely a _joke_ , young man.” Drumknott gives him a sour look, as if to imply a joke is a very unsavoury thing to be faced with, and that he should rather not hear another. “You wish to ask my permission for…?”

“I—” Drumknott stops. “I want to… That is to say, I merely—”

“Merely, merely,” Vetinari echoes sardonically, and Drumknott swallows. “Mr Drumknott, I do not believe that your going into a tavern will serve to be the end of the world. Remember to take any bribes for information as they are offered to you, and do use your better judgement as to _what_ you reveal.”

“Not… Not a tavern, my lord,” Drumknott says.

“No?”                                                                

“No.”

“A public house?”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott murmurs, and then says, hurriedly, “I— I wanted to go, ah, into a club, in the Entertainment District, but of course, I shouldn’t like to draw any attention to the… I am aware that many in the city frown upon the nature of… I would not like to embarrass the office of the Patrician.”

“I see,” Vetinari says. “Well, Mr Drumknott, I do believe that the general nature of any establishment in the Entertainment District is to favour discretion above all else. There is, after all, a prevailing sense of _mutually_ assured destruction, in the event you are recognised by someone else, is there not?” He looks pointedly down at his paperwork, even though the text blurs slightly under his gaze, and merely the act of concentrating makes his eyes sting. “ _Do_ have a good time.”

There is a bad taste in his mouth. He dislikes the very _concept_.

But there is no reason to stand in the way of it, that much is true. It will be most interesting, if Drumknott can see anyone of note in the Blue Cat Club, if anyone takes note of him, and at any point Vetinari ordinarily has one or two Dark Clerks stationed there, so he knows he will be _safe_.

“Thank you, my lord,” Drumknott says quietly. “My apologies, if this was a foolish question: I didn’t want to cast any aspersions on the Palace, merely by not thinking enough of my actions.”

So much sense of _duty_ , for such a young man. It’s admirable.

“I don’t believe there is any danger of that, Drumknott. Good night.”

“Good night, my lord,” Drumknott says.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

Drumknott doesn’t go, in the end.

The idea of the Blue Cat Club is too nebulous, too _large_ to be anything but intimidating, and he does not know how he might engage in such an environment, how one might actually seek out another man and engage with him, how…

 _How_?

How does one even have the time, to seek men out, to spend _time_ with them? The concept of marriage is baffling in its own right, but so too is the idea of any ongoing relationship outside of one’s work, or even going out… How much time would it take? How little sleep would he have gotten? What if, horror of horrors, he had fallen asleep in someone else’s bed, and had to crawl back to the Palace in the early hours?

 _Fidelity_ is crucial to one’s work as a clerk: how can one be truly faithful, if one’s attentions are divided?

He tosses and turns in his bed, cannot sleep, and he leaves his bedroom at some time past midnight, having had no sleep at all, despite lying down early. He doesn’t bother with a candle: he does not need one to move through the corridors and make his way down the stairs, into his office.

He reorganises the files that Meridian had misfiled or simply left out on the desk, ensuring everything is put back into order; he readjusts all the changes Meridian has made to his stationery, fixing the errors he has made in the formatting of his lordship’s datebook…

Sitting back in his chair, he sighs, and he lets his eyes close for just a moment.

If he _had_ gone, if he had—

But he didn’t.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

Vetinari watches as Drumknott walks back through the corridor in the dark: he had remained in the Palace, in the end, had retired early to his quarters, and taken a break to work some in his office before going back.

It would be ridiculous, for Vetinari to be _pleased_ that he should stay in – it would be ridiculous for him to feel one way or the other about it.

And yet…

What a curious sense of satisfaction.

Careful to avoid the boards that will creak, Vetinari hesitates just outside of Drumknott’s bedroom door.

It is muffled by the thick walls and the closed door, but in the silence of the night, he can hear it: the sound of a heaving gasp not quite silenced by the press of a face into a pillow, a low moan of noise. What must he look like?

It is rare that Vetinari thinks of such things, and yet here, the curiosity takes hold of his imagination quite entirely: what must Drumknott look like, on his back or on his side in his bed, trying not to make too much noise, and thinking of what? Thinking of Lord Vetinari? The idea is _gratifying_ , in a way.

The idea that he might hold sway over Drumknott even in the young man’s _fantasies_ is—

Not a thought to be dwelled upon.

A _salacious_ thought, a distinctly _useless_ thought that adds to no goal, and not one to be dwelled upon.

 

[1] The Unseen University’s bursar is a most reluctant victim of these friendly attacks, and much of his current instability (being utterly mad) can be attributed to Ridcully.

[2] Anyone else hearing the phrase “youthful exuberance” in the same sentence as Drumknott’s name would have assumed the connecting phrase was “is frowned upon by”, but Vetinari is _not_ anyone else.

[3] Sir Henry Watton’s _A History of the Stapler_ , which had likely never been read by anybody in the Library, or indeed, the Discworld.

[4] Although still not able to be described as “medium-sized”, let alone “big”.

[5] The finger was rather rough, as Ridcully’s hands were generally well-used to all manner of healthy activities men ought concern themselves with, and these activities tended to put some weather on one’s palms. With that said, the Archchancellor’s fingernails are remarkably clean.

[6] What tell-tale signs these might be, no one outside of Vetinari and Drumknott would likely be able to point them out. One can only surmise these signs rest in the infinitesimal shift of his usual eye movements or the hold of his hands, which most would not be cognizant of.


	8. Rats

When Drumknott comes into his office in the morning, at precisely a quarter to six, a trio of rats are sitting on the chair across from his desk in a neat trio, leaning back on their back paws. When they look to Drumknott, one of them – the biggest one, who is a dark grey and has red eyes – gives a low chirrup.

“His lordship hasn’t risen yet,” Drumknott says quietly, even as he steps forward and crouches down beside the chair, setting his hands on his knees, and the three of them shift to look at him. One would think that the rats would be unclean, or that they’d have an unsavoury smell, but they really are rather good about washing off the sewer water particularly before they come up to the Oblong Office, and, Drumknott has learned since joining the staff at the Patrician’s Palace, rats are a great deal cleaner than he had expected. “Is it very urgent?”

The big rat twitches its nose, and shoves a smaller rat beside him in the shoulder. Drumknott isn’t sure of this one’s name, but the third rat, a muscular brown rat, is named Krt.

“S’not _so_ urgent, guv,” it squeaks. “But we couldn’t come in yesterday, what with that yellowhead.”

“Yellow head,” Drumknott repeats. “Do you mean Mr Meridian?”

“Dunno. Where were you, anyway?”

“It was my day off.”

“What’s that?” asks Krt dully, in a deep but still-squeaky voice.

Drumknott hesitates for a moment. The Palace rats, according to Lord Vetinari, are intelligent likely as a result of the thaumic radiation from things they’ve picked up in the University, and most of them can speak very well, but there are some things it is difficult to explain to a rat. The vast majority of them, for example, can’t really read, and there are various human concepts that are sort of lost on them. A _day off_ is difficult to explain to a rat, because rats don’t really have the same concept of _work_ that humans do, nor a real divide between work and leisure.

“I’ll take you up to his lordship’s room,” Drumknott decides, and he moves across the room, taking up a wooden box from a drawer underneath the tables, which is intended as a document tray, and proffering it forward. “I’ll give you a lift,” he offers, and at Skrp’s squeaked instruction, the three rats hop up onto the tray, which Drumknott carefully supports against his chest to make sure he doesn’t jostle them too much.

It’s a curiously abstract thing, he muses, to be faced with the rats in the Palace. Vetinari has sorted out a kind of arrangement with them – so long as they make themselves useful, and bring him information (which they mostly do), he allows them to have the run of the dungeons and the rubbish that the palace produces, without anyone laying any traps or poison. Most of the staff don’t even realize that there are never any problems with rats, or any other vermin, although, Drumknott is fairly certain, nor do the general staff or the clerks _know_ what the rats are, what they’re like.

They wouldn’t believe it, Drumknott supposes, if they’d never spent any time on the UU campus.

“What’s your name?” Drumknott asks quietly, to the rat that has been doing most of the speaking today. “I don’t think we’ve spoken before.”

“Kup!” the rat proclaims. “What’s your name?”

“Drumknott.”

“Oh. And you help Lord Vetinari?” Kup asks. Skrp has sat down on the surface of the in-tray to keep from being swayed slightly as it moves, but Kup and Krt are standing up on their hindlegs, their little hands braced against the edge of the in-tray to keep them on-balance.

“I’m his personal clerk,” Drumknott says, and when this is met with puzzlement, he adds, “I help him perform his duties.”

“Oh,” Kup says. “So, you’re like his next-rat? His… His second?”

“No,” Drumknott answers, his lip twitching at the very thought. “Not really.” He comes to the room that is Lord Vetinari’s bedroom[1], and he knocks on the door. For a few moments, there is absolute quiet, and he waits patiently: the rats can’t do into Vetinari’s room on their own, because there _are_ a lot of traps there, and while they’re not aimed at the rats, they could still do them rather a lot of damage. They could do _anyone_ a lot of damage.

The door opens, and Lord Vetinari peers at Drumknott with some expectation, and then glances down at the in-tray. His lips shift into a warm smile.

“Ah, good _morning_ ,” he purrs, looking down at the rats, and Drumknott stares at him. Vetinari is not yet dressed: his hair is still damp and combed back from his head, and he wears a robe over his black pyjamas, which are edged in silver thread. At his neck and the top of his chest, Drumknott can see a few criss-crossing marks from various scars, and it is— _Strange_ , to see so much of Vetinari’s skin on show. He has _chest hair_. It makes sense that he would – most men do, after some fashion – but he can _see_ it, see the top of the scant thatch of hair, a mix of black and silver where his robe is low enough to reveal it.

“Come in, Drumknott, put them there,” Vetinari says, gesturing to a neatly set-up desk against the door, and Drumknott moves into the room, setting the in-tray down on the table. Once he’s closed the door behind them, Vetinari pads across the room in silent, bare feet. One scar shows on his right foot, and Drumknott can see his bare ankles.

It’s—

 _Strange_.

He watches as Lord Vetinari turns to the wash basin to the edge of the room, taking up a very sharp razor and lathering some shaving cream onto the space between his goatee and his bare skin, where the stubble has grown through. There is something surreal about seeing Lord Vetinari in so _ordinary_ a situation, undressed, and shaving—

“I wondered where you were yesterday,” Vetinari says absently, as he looks at his face in the mirror. Glancing at Drumknott, he says, “Please, Drumknott, sit down.” Drumknott hesitates, glancing around the narrow little room: the singular chair is tucked slightly beneath the desk, but there is the bed, which is a single cot, already neatly made. Drumknott sits down on the edge of it, that Vetinari might have the chair when he wants to sit.

“You had that yellowhead in,” Krt says darkly.

“We didn’t like the look of him,” Kup agrees. “He screamed when he saw Skrp in the hall, guv. He was an _idiot_.”

“Yes,” Vetinari muses, speaking casually. “I rather had the same thought.”

There is a part of Drumknott – a small, but significant part – that _crows_ his victory over Meridian being called an _idiot_ , particularly when Vetinari seems to be so displeased with his service. He’d misfiled a few things the night before, although whether that was sheer incompetence or deliberate action, he doesn’t know.

Wuffles comes forward, and he hops up onto the bed, and Drumknott automatically raises his elbow, allowing the dog to lean against his side. He looks fascinatedly at the rats, who each give him suspicious looks, but don’t kick up a fuss. The mattress beneath them is… _soft_. Much softer than Drumknott had expected, with a great deal of give in the surface of the mattress. It’s the plainest confirmation that this is one of Vetinari’s dummy bedrooms, and not one of the ones he actually sleeps in.

“There’s been a man wandering about in the sewers,” Kup says. “A human.”

Vetinari adjusts his grip on his razor, and he glances toward Kup, his face half-shaved. “ _Oh_?”

“Tall fella,” Krt says.

“Right tall. Taller’n you,” Kup says. “And he didn’t seem to notice the smell at all.”

“Tall and _anosmic_ ,” Vetinari muses. “Anything else?”

“Ruddy. Like him.” Kup points at Drumknott, and Drumknott frowns slightly.

“Don’t point, Kup, it’s seen as rather rude,” Vetinari says, and Kup lowers her little hands, shooting an apologetic glance in Drumknott’s direction. “What colour was his hair?”

“Yellow.”

“Blond,” Vetinari corrects.

“What’s the difference?” Kup asks.

“We use blond in reference to hair, not yellow.”

“Why?”

“ _Blond_ comes from the Latatian for yellow, which then became a part of modern Quirmian, and is now a part of the Morporkian we use from day to day. The word became specialised over time, and we now use it primarily in reference to hair. Language evolves over time, and sometimes certain pieces of language become specialised for certain occasions,” Vetinari answers mildly, in an easy tone.

“That’s stupid,” Krt says.

“Was he wearing black?” Drumknott asks. Vetinari glances at him, and he doesn’t think he imagines the way Vetinari’s lip twitches.

“Hard to tell, guv, but he was dressed in dark colours.”

“Did he have anything on his face? Glasses, like these?” Drumknott points to his own spectacles. “A hood, perhaps jewellery in his ear or piercing his skin? Rings on his ears, or any jewellery around his neck?”

“He wore a ring,” Kup says. “Din’t see what it looked like, though – just a silver glint on his finger. This hand.” She holds up her left hand, and Drumknott sees Vetinari give an even nod. He can’t _possibly_ know who it is, based on that alone… Can he? Not an Assassin, if he wasn’t wearing black and didn’t have a hood; blond, taller than Vetinari, so at _least_ past six feet tall, and either unable to smell, or somehow blocking the sense…

“Very useful,” Vetinari comments, drawing a damp cloth over his face and taking away the excess of the shaving cream. “Did you see what he was doing?”

“Mostly just wandering about, taking notes,” Kup says. “Had a pencil, like, and he was… Well, yeah. Wandering. Big stoop to him, of course, but the water barely seemed to bother him.”

“What did he write on?” Drumknott asks. Kup and the other rats look at him, and Kup tilts her head to the side, apparently confused. Beside him, Wuffles wriggles a little closer, and Drumknott absently strokes his side.

“What d’you mean?” Kup asks. “You write with them pencils on paper, don’t you?”

“Not if one gets wet,” Drumknott answers. “Even for good paper that can withstand a little damp, the pencil lead will smudge on the page.”

Kup glances to Skrp, who twitches his whiskers once, and then lets out a few squeaks that Drumknott can’t understand. Turning to look at the big rat, Vetinari gets a rather critical look on his face, deeply in thought.

“What did he say, my lord?” Drumknott asks.

“He said,” Vetinari says, musingly, “that he was writing on a wooden book that folded outward.”

“Wooden book,” Drumknott repeats. “Waterproofed, then?”

“Did it smell like candles?” Vetinari asks, and Skrp gives a single twitch of his whiskers: an affirmative.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

Drumknott spends the majority of his morning in his office, going through reports. The act of going through reports is a simple enough one – he reads them, looking for anything of particular note or relevance, and sets those ones to the top of the pile; those which have evidence of being tampered with or somehow forged[2] are marked with a note and also set aside. Then, of course, there are the meeting minutes – the ones taken officially are usually redacted in places before they are sent onto the Patrician’s office, with strange gaps in the conversation or a lilt of voices that doesn’t match up with the time the meeting had taken; the ones taken _unofficially_ , by a Dark Clerk in attendance or secreted in the room, are usually a great deal more informative.

It is… _curious_ , Drumknott muses, the extent to which people try to deceive the Patrician.

Equally curious, of course, is the fact that the Patrician rarely lets on that he is not being deceived. Other Patricians would be furious at the attempts to hide information from them, would punish the offenders, would attempt to burn out those seeking to hide one thing or another…

Lord Vetinari, on the other hand, all but _encourages_ these things. Almost every group of individuals trying to kill him or harm him, he _started_.

And people know this, on some level, Drumknott things – all sorts of people in the city know precisely what Vetinari is like, that he deals information, that he focuses on spies, and yet, they are naïve enough to believe that _their_ scheme, that _their_ idea, is somehow going to be the one to escape his perception.

Even Lupine Wonse, who _ought_ have known the Patrician better than anybody, and yet…

Sometimes, Drumknott is struck with the amount of information that passes over his desk, his head spinning with the information he doesn’t even mean to _learn_ , but that merely sticks in his head because it has passed through his awareness, or because he has seen it in a file time and time again…

He knows all manners of schemes throughout the city, knows about various coups and complicated plots, about all manner of little dramas, which rumours are _rumours_ , which are artifice, and yet, he is comfortably aware, he knows only a fraction of that which is truly going on.

There are meetings Lord Vetinari has with the Dark Clerks, or with the palace rats, or with others entirely, that Drumknott knows naught about; there are reams of files in the Dark Offices that he will never see, and would likely never understand in the event he _did_ see them, as a result of their complex codes…

It would bother someone, Drumknott supposes, who liked that sort of thing.

Drumknott isn’t sure that it bothers him. He has no need for the amount of information the Patrician commands, has no desire for the power that would come with it… The idea of controlling other people has never really appealed to him. _Predicting_ people, what they might do, he likes that, has always felt more comfortable knowing how people might react, but controlling them…

There is a shift of a board in the corridor: the stout movements of Commander Vimes, the much more graceful step of Sergeant Angua beside him. Drumknott pretends to rifle through a filing cabinet as they come to his door, knocking.

“We have a meeting with the Patrician,” Angua says.

“Do you?” Drumknott asks, not looking up. “It’s not in his appointment book.”

“You can add it in after,” Vimes growls, and Drumknott glances at him. Vimes already has a cigar in his mouth, and is puffing on it quite irritably[3]; he has a hunched look about his shoulders, and his expression is sour. Angua’s face is very grave.

Drumknott can see a little blood on Vimes’ boots. A murder, then. Something gory.

Taking up a few files from the desk, he steps out into the corridor, knocking neatly on Lord Vetinari’s door, and he steps over the dog as Lord Vetinari invites them in, setting the files in Lord Vetinari’s in-tray and taking up a few from the out-tray.

They do not exchange words. Drumknott walks over to the window, wiping an imaginary streak of dust from the sill, and Vetinari glances at him. Drumknott meets his gaze, and they stand in silence for just have a second before Drumknott comes away, straightening something up on the shelf. Vetinari remains facing the window.

“Sir Samuel, Sergeant,” he says. “What has happened?”

Vimes hesitates, and gives Drumknott a look. It’s a rather abrupt look, and its meaning is quite clear: _Get out_. Drumknott glances to Lord Vetinari, who is still facing the window, and moves to the door, opens it, and steps out again.

There are some things, after all, he need not hear. This doesn’t bother him.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

Drumknott leans down, taking up Wuffles’ ball. He dislikes the slobber that clings to thing, and emits an extremely foul odour, but the dog does _love_ to chase after it, especially as Drumknott can’t throw it very far. He launches it over the courtyard, and Wuffles lets out a yip as he launches himself in pursuit: once he returns, he will flop down at their feet, quite tired out, and will not ask that anyone throw another projectile for him until tomorrow.

“Are you squeamish, Drumknott?” Vetinari asks. It’s an uncommonly warm, sunny day for February, and Lord Vetinari is sitting on one of the benches, resting with his cane against his knee.

“No, my lord,” Drumknott says.

“You’ve seen murder scenes before?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Your father, I believe, was murdered when you were a child.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You discovered his body.”

“I did, my lord.”

“The Watch did almost nothing.”

“That’s right, my lord.”

“This didn’t bother you?”

“I was a child,” Drumknott answers, and he crouches as Wuffles rushes back toward them, panting heavily around the ball, which he spits at Drumknott’s feet. Immediately afterward, he collapses onto his side, absently raising a paw that Drumknott might scratch his belly, and Drumknott does, although he mainly does this to wipe the dog’s slobber off his palm. This area of questioning is somewhat unorthodox, but he has expected it for a while – Lord Vetinari knows more about Drumknott than most do, and it makes sense he should interrogate it, on some level. “I don’t believe the Watch arresting the man who murdered my family, in the scheme of things, would have made much difference to my feelings on the matter, without meaning to sound callous. He would have still been dead, my lord.”

“You say it as if you know who it was that murdered him,” Vetinari says musingly. It isn’t posed as an accusation, or a demand for information: it is merely an idle comment. Ordinarily, Vetinari puts listening over speaking. Drumknott has noticed that in many of his conversations, he is quiet for long periods, allowing people to talk and talk, often revealing more than they intended to before they started. He doesn’t do that with Drumknott, really. Perhaps because he knows Drumknott isn’t one to talk out of anxiety.

Drumknott shrugs his shoulders. “There are likely suspects, my lord: he owed people money.”

“Sergeant Angua and Commander Vimes came to tell me about a rather nasty grisly murder that had occurred on The Chine, near the Shambling Gate. Did they say to you what they were here to discuss?”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott murmurs. “But I surmised it in their expressions, and in the way Commander Vimes was smoking his cigar: rather frenetically. There was blood spattered on his boot.”

“You weren’t curious?”

Drumknott glances up at Vetinari’s expression. As expected, it reveals nothing.

“No, my lord,” Drumknott says.

“I see.”

He’s _annoyed_. It doesn’t show in his face, but Drumknott thinks he can see a slight tightness to his form, his jaw held just a little more tightly than usual, his hands unusually still on his knees… The clues to one mood or another are all but impossible to judge in Lord Vetinari, but he does think he can make note of some of them.

He _thinks_.

“Commander Vimes all but ordered me to leave, my lord,” Drumknott says quietly. “My apologies if I erred in obeying him: I didn’t want to distract from the matter at hand.” A muscle in Vetinari’s jaw relaxes, just slightly.

“Very astute, aren’t you, Drumknott?”

“My lord?”

“In future,” Vetinari says, looking out over the green space of the palace grounds that lead out toward the Menagerie, “do not leave my presence until _I_ indicate for you to do so. You are most adept at pretending not to understand significant looks, and I should prefer you do so if those looks are not delivered by me.”

A burst of guilt twists in Drumknott’s guilt, and he looks down at Wuffles, whose eyes are closed as he sleeps with his head against Drumknott’s ankle. His breath is causing Drumknott’s shoelaces to wilt somewhat.

“Very well, my lord: my apologies again.”

“It would seem,” Vetinari continues, “that someone is killing members of the Guild of Clerks and Secretaries. The man in question was a Mr Cardinal Yent. Did you know him?”

“We went to school together,” Drumknott says. We sat next to one another at the Linkston Academy, a little outside of the city, on the road to Sto Lat.” It is strange, to think of Cardinal Yent. Drumknott had had a decent enough time at the Academy, had pursued his studies, spent long hours in the library or otherwise somewhere on the grounds, studying one thing or another. Linkston had been mercifully light on sports, and rarely tried to foist them on the students, although many of the boys enjoyed that sort of thing on their own account.

“Boarding school?”

“Yes, my lord, but I didn’t board until I was thirteen. Before that, I rode on one of the coaches in the mornings. A few of the Ankh-Morpork boys did that. Not Cardinal, though. His aunt was the headmaster’s secretary, and his parents were dead, so he stayed at the school all year round. Am I a suspect?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Vetinari says. “I believe Mr Vimes is worried someone might kill _you_.”

“Oh,” Drumknott says. “How novel, my lord.”

“Did your father ever try to kill you?”

The question is uttered with the exact same, casual tone that the rest of the conversation has been conducted with, and Drumknott thinks of the various scars littering Lord Vetinari’s neck and chest, and indeed, his ankles. Is he like that all over? How many times has someone tried to kill him? How many people have gotten close?

“I wouldn’t know to speculate, my lord,” Drumknott murmurs. “I don’t believe he ever thought that far. There was no real _intention_ : merely rage, untethered.”

 _He’d_ been rather like that, as a boy. He remembers, with distant embarrassment, the way anger would take him over like a flame, burning any semblance of composure to ashes: he’d been in street fights often at seven, eight, nine years old, despite how small he’d been. He’d done awful damage to some of the other boys in Dimwell, and he is aware that there are likely young men still with scars he gave them, although with all the fighting that went on, it’s quite possible they couldn’t tell the scars Drumknott gave them from the ones from other boys.

Drumknott’s temper had improved considerably once his father had died, but that hadn’t been the main catalyst, he doesn’t think. He had been ten, the first time he had sat down in front of the books in the Drumknott Green Grocers, and all of the anger he’d been feeling had been rather easy to funnel into actually _doing_ something… Chaos into order.

The shame lingers.

Doesn’t it always?

“Were you glad when he died?” Vetinari asks.

“I expect so, my lord. I don’t really remember,” Drumknott answers frankly. It occurs to him that before Vetinari, he’s never spoken to someone quite as frankly, as plainly, as this. But then, before Vetinari, no one had ever asked him such frank, plain questions. “My lord, may I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Where would our anosmic anonyme have gotten a wax tablet? No one uses them anymore – I don’t believe I’ve seen one outside of a Latatian museum. We learned about them, at the Academy, when we studied Latatian – we looked at how the Latatians would have approached their own schooling.” He remembers, vaguely, sitting beside Cardinal Yent in the class – Cardinal had been a bigger boy than Drumknott[4], with white teeth and tanned skin – and the way that he’d mused longingly at the way the wax tablets could so easily be erased and rewritten.

“And?” Vetinari asks.

“I don’t know that I believe in coincidences, my lord,” Drumknott answers. “That’s all.”

“Don’t you, Drumknott?” Vetinari asks. “I do. Coincidence can be very useful.”

“It occurs, my lord, that in your world that what one labels coincidence need not meet the dictionary definition.”

Vetinari smiles. “ _Our_ world, Drumknott,” he corrects, in a not unkindly tone, and Drumknott hesitates for just a moment before he smiles himself.

“Very good, my lord,” he says. He glances past Lord Vetinari to the roof of the palace. Silhouetted in black against the brightly blue sky, he can see a figure scrambling over the tiles, which keep shifting under the figure’s feet and threatening to vault him into the flowerbeds below. “One of the guards is going to have to get him down,” Drumknott says grimly. “He’s already dropped his crossbow. I don’t know what he did with his rope.”

“Oh, I had the rats take it,” Vetinari answers, with a vague wave of his hand. “I expect he’ll be rather keen to reveal everything he knows once he’s been keeping his balance for another hour or so.”

“I used to look at the Assassins with a good deal of admiration,” Drumknott murmurs, leaning back slightly as Wuffles rolls entirely onto his back to escape the ensuing noxious cloud. “I wanted to apply for a scholarship.”

Lord Vetinari, Drumknott notes, is staring at him, his gaze very intent.

“Why didn’t you?” he asks, apparently fascinated.

“My mother was all for it, but Wendy objected,” Drumknott answers, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “She’s a very anxious person.”

“She worried you’d be killed?”

“That I’d be bullied. The killing was rather by the wayside, I think.”

“Mr Drumknott, you are _full_ of surprises.”

“Not really, my lord. It’s just rare that people take an interest. I likely wouldn’t have passed the scholarship exam, anyway.” Wuffles yawns, and Drumknott holds his breath as he turns his head slightly away.

Vetinari doesn’t respond, either to agree or to disagree. His gaze remains intent on Drumknott, and Drumknott wonders what he must be thinking. He finds himself very comfortable in Vetinari’s presence, as a rule – his lordship thinks evenly and logically, and despite his general flirtation with the concept of his own inhumation, Drumknott finds it comforting to be met with a mind that takes such complicated events and problems and renders them simple. Vetinari has the uncanny gift of internally and quite accurately filing each and every event even as they unfold.

“Why,” Vetinari asks, finally, “didn’t you think you would pass the scholarship exam?”

“Lack of style,” Drumknott says. “Without meaning to disparage the craft, my lord, I never really saw the point in all the flourishes.”

“The killing didn’t bother you?”

“No.”

“No,” Vetinari echoes. “I suppose not. You told me when you joined my service, Drumknott, that you had not had much experience with Assassins, and yet time after time, it seems you’ve crossed paths with them.”

“ _Students_ , my lord,” Drumknott says reproachfully. “Never graduates, barring my encounter with Doctor Cruces. Regardless, it was merely a passing fancy at ten or so – the subject of a few hours’ conversation before it was forgotten, and nothing more.”

“It is never too late to learn,” Vetinari says.

“It is for him,” Drumknott murmurs, and Vetinari turns his head slightly. Together, they watch the Assassin as he grips tightly at the very edge of the palace roof, his fingers slipping on the stone. He falls very fast, like a dropped stone, although there is no resounding crack: with that said, the flowerbeds are laid with a foundation of stone, and there will have been no soft landing, although the beds will have muffled the sound.

“Hm,” Vetinari hums. “Let us back inside.”

 

[1] Although Drumknott is certain Vetinari doesn’t actually _sleep_ in here.

[2] About 20%.

[3]Although before they leave Drumknott’s office, he does put it hurriedly out and sets the end aside.

[4] All of the boys at the Linkston Academy had, in fact, been bigger boys than Drumknott, and this trend has continued into his life outside of school.


	9. Reflex

When they make their way back into the Oblong Office, Vetinari takes up the file from his desk, and he hands it to Drumknott. “I should like for you to study this in detail. I expect the City Watch will interview you either tomorrow or the next day.”

“Yes, my lord,” Drumknott murmurs, with a nod of his head.

Vetinari examines him critically for a moment – it is somewhat impossible, now Drumknott has mentioned it, _not_ to imagine him approaching the rules of the Assassins’ Guild. He would have been bullied, that much is true – any of the scholarship boys are ordinarily ridden very hard by their social superiors, and for that matter, Drumknott is _small_ , red-faced, quiet… None of these traits are especially intimidating, and they do not lend themselves well to the expectations of the Assassins’ Guild, where aesthetic is viewed as highly as one’s skill with a blade.

With that in mind, the very _concept_ of Drumknott being trained in inhumation is a curious one.

His instincts are correct, to be sure, as many of the best clerks share their instincts with the best assassins: there is a necessity for composure, an ability to be utterly still and silent, a requirement for discretion…

“How are your reflexes, Drumknott?” Vetinari asks.

 “Please don’t throw anything at me,” Drumknott says, and Vetinari glances away from the paperweight on his desk, which he had been idly considering. “I will not catch it.”

“Will not, or cannot?”

Drumknott gives him a pleading look, and Vetinari feels his lip twitch slightly. “Very well,” he murmurs, and he feels… _amused_. Drumknott really _is_ perceptive – more naturally inclined to perception than Wonse ever had been, and yet with no future goal in mind, no shot at power. If someone were to give him power and glory, he would likely look at it in some distaste, and ask politely how it might be given back. “Nothing comes to mind, then, as to why anyone might kill Cardinal Yent?”

“No. He was quiet, inoffensive… A little too eager for attention at times, but he was never unkind,” Drumknott answers: he holds the file in his arms, crossed slightly over his chest so that the file rests against belly, like a shield. He does _know_ how to hold himself in a fight, knows how to best even opponents that are bigger than him at least some of the time, but were that to be given some manner of _finesse_ , what then? Were those skills to be concentrated, distilled…? “My lord, you said that someone was killing _members_ of the Guild. Who else has died?”

“Two deaths before this one,” Vetinari answers. “A Remus Battersea, who had only recently joined the Guild as a full member – he was seventeen, and he’d had his throat slit in an alleyway in the Shades… That had initially been put to the standard evening in the Shades, and Sergeant Angua was merely unlucky, I believe, in being unable to catch the scent of the culprit. And then a Gardenia Rutherford.”

“But that wasn’t a murder, was it?” Drumknott asks. “I saw her obituary on the noticeboard outside of the guild offices yesterday – she threw herself from the roof of the library in the Guild of Archaeologists.”

Vetinari gestures to the file, and Drumknott opens it. Vetinari watches the way his gaze flits over the message that had been pinned to Yent’s chest in The Chine, every vowel and consonant painstakingly copied-out by Captain Irounfoundersson.

 _My purpose made manifest: to eliminate those of the dreadful Guild of Clerks and Secretaries, and kill that most unsightly pest, the Clerk. I have Killed twice before and I shall do so again: you will not catch me. You cannot. The goddess Pippina is on my side and I shall kill all I can in her service, and dedicate every death to her name_.

Drumknott’s expression changes slightly, and Vetinari watches as his eyebrows raise just slightly. Drumknott pages back to the first part of the file, and his eyebrows lower again as he takes in the report on the description of the corpse. Yent’s throat had been cut too, very deeply, and the blood had trickled over the cobblestones and dripped into the sewer below.

When Drumknott looks up from the file, and he meets Vetinari’s expectant gaze.

Unlike many people in Ankh-Morpork, Drumknott doesn’t shudder or fuss under a direct gaze: he has the composure of someone a good deal older than himself, and he isn’t one that talks, when he’s anxious. It’s a good trait to have.

“Is it likely, my lord, that this religious language, this mention of Pippina… is naught more than a smokescreen?”

“Perhaps,” Vetinari allows. “Religious zealots _do_ exist; people have been struck with madness by one god or another in the past.” Here, however, is a good instinct, and Vetinari is curious as to how events will unfold.

Drumknott gives a nod of his head. “Can I get you anything else, my lord?”

“No, Drumknott,” Vetinari says. “Read that file, and then get on with your duties. And… Hm. Mr Meridian.”

“Yes, my lord?” Drumknott’s expression reveals nothing, but his gaze is intent on Vetinari, focused on him.

“Has he given you any bother?” Vetinari asks.

“No, my lord,” Drumknott says lightly. “We haven’t really crossed paths in the past few months.”

Vetinari arches one eyebrow. “Oh?”

“No, my lord.”

“How many times a day do you walk down to the Clerks’ Department, Drumknott?”

“Twice or thrice per day, my lord, as a rule.”

“And Mr Meridian is Mr Shaw’s right hand, is he not?”

“I would say so, my lord.”

“And you never cross paths with him?”

“No, my lord.”

“And yet you see him often, I expect.”

“Oh, several times per day,” Drumknott confirms. “Strangely, my lord, Mr Meridian is almost always distracted whenever I come down to the Clerks’ Office, meaning I either deal with Mr Shaw directly, or with one of the office administrators, such as Mr Fibbon or Miss McGee.” There is no wry lilt to his tone, nor any mirthful sparkle in his eye, and yet the irony is such that Vetinari feels like _laughing_.

“Indeed,” Vetinari murmurs, and he takes a slow, deliberate step forward. Drumknott does not look away as Vetinari comes closer, except to let his eyes raise to keep their focus on his face. He’s a good deal shorter than Vetinari, an inch or two shorter even than Vimes… They remain in silence for a good minute or so before Drumknott exhales, and he holds the file just slightly tighter.

“I hardly wish to encourage his conflict, my lord,” Drumknott mutters. “Best to neatly sidestep it.”

“Are you frightened of him?” Vetinari asks.

Drumknott _scoffs_.

It’s a curiously revealing shift in his mouth and his face, the way his cheeks shift at the sudden exhalation of breath, the way he turns his head and makes an expression of such pure derision. “ _No_ , my lord. I merely don’t see the value in engendering a confrontation, when his response to such a thing would be to knuckle down, perhaps attempt some manner of jape or, better, hire an Assassin to _inhume_ me. Imagine the mess.”

Fascinating.

Not “I don’t want to deal with it,” and not, “I don’t want to fight someone,” but _imagine the mess_. The young man is quite mad, with no sense of priority whatsoever, and Vetinari can’t help the way he leans forward slightly.

“You do somewhat _outrank_ Mr Meridian, Drumknott. Why not ask Mr Shaw to relieve him from his service?”

“My lord,” Drumknott says, apparently scandalised at the very idea. “He’s an excellent second to Mr Shaw. He might not understand _my_ filing system, but he’s an excellent manager, and none of his juniors so much as compare in that aspect. To remove him from the Clerks’ Offices would be a great loss, and would severely impact the Palace’s efficiency.”

“And your solution is to tip-toe about him until he forgets about you?” Vetinari asks, and if his amused tone grates on Drumknott, the young man doesn’t show it.

“No, my lord,” Drumknott says. Efficiency. The Palace’s efficiency, of course, outweighs any personal interaction Drumknott might like or not like, and so he would avoid a man’s ego entirely, merely for the sake of efficiency.

The emotion Vetinari is feeling is—

Difficult to categorise.

Drumknott stands face-to-face with him, and the more pressure Vetinari puts on him, the more _confident_ he seems. Were a man like Meridian to do this, Vetinari would be _irritated_ at the show of disrespect, but it is plain in Drumknott that no disrespect is intended – even when Vetinari outright _provokes_ the young man, implies insult, Drumknott shows no sign of losing his temper.

“And what, Drumknott,” Vetinari asks softly, “ _is_ your solution?”

“With your permission, in some time,” Drumknott says quietly, “I was going to employ the assistance of Mr Lockheed, and perhaps another of the Dark Clerks who went to the Assassins’ Guild school. Whilst meeting with Mr Meridian, ostensibly to reformat the Clerks’ Offices, a meeting I would ensure Mr Shaw would be unable to attend, my fellow from the Dark Clerks would invade the room, ostensibly to kill me. Mr Meridian is a natural hero, I am told – he jumped into the _Ankh_ to drag a stranger out some months out, and an assassin is nothing compared to the horrors in that filthy water.

“It is a crime, of course, to impersonate a member of the Assassins’ Guild, but it would be impossible too to forge a bill with them, so this would be an supposed independent assassin, outside of the Guild’s purview: when Meridian had gallantly fought off my attacker, said attacker then feeling, all would change. Meridian is attracted to the position in the Patrician’s office because he feels it should add to his sense of importance. I am not of the opinion that he has taken into account the fact of potential threats on his own life, and certainly not the threat of torture or the like.

“Here, then, the effect would be twofold: his desire for my position would be quite evaporated, and I would be in his debt, soothing his fragile ego.”

There are some factors that go into a carefully-made manipulation.

Vetinari has studied them, as the years have gone by, but the simplest factors were plain to him even when he was a boy, and they only expanded as time went by. By the time he was twelve, it was easy to run circles around his fellow students at the Assassins’ Guild: they thought of him as frail and likely to die at any moment, and it took the _longest_ time for the to see past his careful artifices… In order to execute a particular scheme reliant on multiple moving parts, one must be _assured_ of different variables, and know the personalities of those involved inside-out.

“And if the effect was merely that Meridian wanted your post regardless, and demanded you resign?”

“I would refuse: certainly, then, we would butt heads, and Meridian would likely be lost to the Palace staff one way or another.”

“And if he didn’t step in to save you?”

“I would have to “defend” myself. Hiring in an actual assassin to attack me was considered, but I would have to organise an entire movement to have me removed as your personal clerk, and that seemed excessive.”

“ _This_ , as it stands, does not strike you as excessive?”

Drumknott hesitates, and then says, with some reluctance, “My lord, if it would better meet with your approval, I will speak to Meridian face-to-face, and address the ensuing issue of his brittle ego, but I merely felt that this was the best course of action to ensure I preserve him as Mr Shaw’s second in the long-term. I do not believe I have predicted his reactions incorrectly, and I wouldn’t go to this level of machination if I did not believe it ideal.”

“Did you hear me object?”

Drumknott’s lips part, and then press together again. He can see something shift in Drumknott’s eyes, and once more there is a shimmer of something like desire in the deep brown colour there, _desire_ , for _Vetinari_.

He really ought put Drumknott _toward_ someone, perhaps ensure someone else’s clerk of that persuasion crosses his path, or perhaps even encourage him to go out to one of the tailors’ clubs in the Entertainment District… And yet, he almost doesn’t want to. Such _focus_ is to be seen in the young man, despite the way his infatuation so distracts him, and were he to divide his attentions between his work and some lover, would he be quite as obsessive as he is now? Would he come up with such intricate little plans as these, to push the pieces on the board into the right place, whilst pretending to be naught more than a piece himself?

Vetinari’s wrist moves so fast as to be almost invisible, and in a flash, the room is different.

Vetinari and Drumknott are face-to-face; the file on Yent is on the floor between them, abandoned; Drumknott stands stock-still, his left hand[1] just in front of his face: resting in his palm, gripped by white-knuckled fingers, is Vetinari’s paperweight. He is breathing a little heavier than he was a moment ago, and the _look_ in his eyes is—

It’s much like the anger he’d seen from his clerk in the coach, but there is something more in it, this time, something deeper.

And then, it is as if it fades. Carefully folded away, the fury seeps away from his gaze, and Drumknott’s shoulders loosen slightly. He lowers the paperweight away from his face, and then he says in a very solemn fashion, “May I say something, my lord?”

“You may,” Vetinari murmurs.                                                         

“I would ask that you not make a sport of throwing things at me, my lord. I do not care for it, and, without meaning to impugn your character, I feel it skirts the line with unprofessionalism.” Drumknott’s tone is measured, and it is distinctly lacking in anything even resembling confrontation.

“Well, we can’t have that,” Vetinari replies, and he reaches out, taking hold of the paperweight: his fingers linger over Drumknott’s, feeling the coldness of his fingers under his own, and he sees Drumknott’s nostrils flare as he inhales. When Drumknott tries to move his hand back, Vetinari twists, dragging Drumknott closer, so that he stumbles and almost falls into him: he has to do his best to keep from touching against Vetinari’s chest, and he _is_ breathing heavily now, his ruddy cheeks flushed. It is unfortunate that he blushes so easily – so revealing where otherwise he so easily conceals all. He notes that even in almost falling, Drumknott has been careful to step _over_ the file on the ground, and not on top of it. “I won’t make a sport of it, Drumknott: I wished only to test your reflexes.”

Drumknott gives him a look that might have been reproachful, were it not overtaken with the desperate longing he’s evidently struggling to keep off his face. “You knew that I’d catch it,” Drumknott says. He says it very quietly, as if he’s afraid of being heard. “You just wanted to know what I’d say after I did.”

“And I am still listening _raptly_ ,” Vetinari whispers, right against Drumknott’s mouth, their noses almost touching: Drumknott _shivers_ , and Vetinari imagines him held prone by some man in the Blue Cat Club, some man other than Vetinari, whose sadism is not quite so limited, and who lacks Vetinari’s self-control. Distaste overwhelms him.

“I fear that I am in need of further clarity, my lord,” Drumknott says. “You have advised I rid myself of any… of any infatuation, and yet moments like these do make it harder.”

“ _Indeed_?” Vetinari replies, arching an eyebrow, and Drumknott’s cheeks darken further, his mouth falling open.

“I didn’t…”

The apple of Drumknott’s throat bobs invitingly, making his cravat shift against his high collar, and Vetinari wonders what it would be like, to see him undressed. Would he shudder and shake so often, would he tremble like this? He oughtn’t consider it. Sex is scarcely a drive he even takes into account, hasn’t really engaged with _anyone_ in over a decade, barring the necessity of the occasional act of self-maintenance, and yet here he is, considering…

“You didn’t…?” Vetinari prompts.

“I merely— I _mean_ ,” he adjusts hurriedly, when he reads the twitch in Vetinari’s lip quite accurately, “I recognise that you mean it to… to test my reflexes, and perhaps to make me more steadfast, and less likely to show my feelings in my face, but you…” Drumknott’s fingers are trembling beneath Vetinari’s, his whole body shaking, and Vetinari feels a desire to take the young man entirely apart, watch him for _hours._ How easily would that composure crumble with the right words, if nothing more than a salacious implication makes his lips part like that? Vetinari might not want to touch him, but he wouldn’t _need_ to… “I should take it, then, that my plans for Meridian are met with your approval?”

“Deftly argued, Drumknott,” Vetinari murmurs. “I’m impressed.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“And— You won’t throw anything else at me, my lord?”

“No, Drumknott, not if it so offsets you.”

“It does, my lord.”

“Very well.”

“Thank you.”

Drumknott’s hand is held above his head, in line with Vetinari’s jaw, and like this, they are so close as to be almost touching. He can feel the rapid expansion and contraction of Drumknott’s chest, feel him all but vibrate to be so close to Lord Vetinari’s body – in fear, or in desire? In Drumknott, the two seem ineluctably intertwined.

Vetinari wants this too much, he decides.

The allure in twisting Drumknott’s sexuality in knots is too much to be given into: he doesn’t wish to allow himself to become too distracted from his work as Patrician, and already, he has allowed for hedonism to overtake ascetism, however momentarily: the sheer pleasure of this moment, of Drumknott’s thrumming uncertainty, is not one he ought overly indulge.

He requires distance from the concept, he thinks.

And this—

This _uncertainty_ , as to the Blue Cat Club… “Jealousy” is too direct a word, and yet, whatever reluctance it is he feels, it ought be stamped out. Drumknott ought seek out his pleasures in a figure other than Vetinari himself, and in doing so, will prove to be less of a…

 _Temptation_.

“Why didn’t you go to the Blue Cat Club?” Vetinari asks softly.

“I don’t know, my lord,” Drumknott says. “I thought— I felt I would be out of place. I felt it… I felt it might be distracting from my work.”

“You wouldn’t say this infatuation distracts you?” Vetinari replies, and Drumknott’s gaze flits away for a moment, and then he takes a step _closer_. They are chest to chest, and he reaches up with his other hand, standing on his tip-toes to delicately trying pry Vetinari’s fingers from his own. This is somewhat let down by the fact that Vetinari is so much stronger than him, and does not loosen his grip whatsoever: Drumknott’s expression is a rictus of desperate concentration, and it is _absurd_.

“ _Sir_ ,” he says, plaintively.

“Hm?” Vetinari asks.

“You’re still holding onto my hand.”

“Am I?”

“May I have it back?”

Saying nothing, Vetinari gently lowers Drumknott’s arm, and he lets his hand slide to loop easily around Drumknott’s skinny wrist, turning his palm face-up and drawing the paperweight aside. Drumknott’s fingers are calloused in one or two places, littered with the expected small scars of his profession, but there’s one long scar along the side of his left palm, in line with his smallest finger.

Vetinari traces it with his thumb, feeling the smoothness of the thick, raised line in contrast to the natural lines of Drumknott’s palm. This is far past indulgence, now – he hasn’t let himself be so engrossed in another person in the _longest_ time, and yet, and yet…

“My lord, it’s nearly two o’clock,” Drumknott says softly: he doesn’t try to drag his hand back, doesn’t make any real resistance. “You have a meeting with Lord Ketterling and his sons.”

“I do,” Vetinari allows. The scar is very smooth, straight against the edge of his hand, the flesh shiny and darker than the surrounding flesh where the old burn has healed. It’s from a stove top, or perhaps the side of a very hot, flat pan.

“Clothes iron,” Drumknott supplies.

“ _Ah_ ,” Vetinari murmurs, and he releases Drumknott’s hand.

Immediately, Drumknott drops to his knees, neatly taking up the file, and he takes a step back, holding it neatly. Vetinari watches him as he pushes his glasses up his nose slightly, and then says, “I’ll make you some tea, my lord.”

“Thank you, Drumknott.”

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

 “Oh, and, ah, the last thing on the agenda…” Lockheed hesitates a moment, and then he shoots Kipling and Juniper, the junior Dark Clerks that had accompanied him to the meeting, a warm smile. “You lads get downstairs, there. This one’s just for his lordship’s ears.”

The Dark Clerks give twin nods, and they move out of the door, closing it with a quiet click behind them. After listening to their footsteps retreat down the corridor, Lockheed presses his palms together, meeting Lord Vetinari’s gaze, and Vetinari takes him in.

Lockheed is a very good manager of the Dark Clerks – one wouldn’t expect such a large man to be quite so graceful, nor as artful as he is in his trade in information, but he most certainly is.

“Mr Drumknott’s asked a favour of me,” he says lightly, “to deal with this Meridian lad, Shaw’s second. You know about it?”

“I do,” Vetinari says.

“I suggested Mr Drumknott hire in a fellow from the city, but he said that’d get too complicated too quickly, that he’d have to fake a whole organisation that wants him removed as secretary, and that it’d be better to have me as a variable he can control.” Vetinari does not allow his amusement to show in his face.

“Most wise,” he comments.

“My lord,” Lockheed says, leaning forward slightly: his hands are pressed palm-to-palm, and they rest between his knees, his shoulders directly forward. “He is… Where did you _find_ him?”

“Mr Drumknott was a general member of the Clerks’ Guild before I brought him into my employ, Mr Lockheed. You know that. You vetted him yourself, I believe.”

“So I did, sir, but what I mean is…” Lockheed’s heavy brow furrows, and he glances to the shared wall between the Oblong Office and the secretary’s, as if it might offer him some clue, and then he exhales slowly. “Was he _always_ like this, or has he just learned since he came here?”

“I’m quite sure I wouldn’t know,” Vetinari replies, and Lockheed looks at him for a moment, apparently  hoping he will go on. He does not. “On Tuesday afternoon, then. And, ah… Hm. My lord, I wondered if I might ask permission to do something, ah, unorthodox.”

“Our business is in unorthodoxy, Mr Lockheed.”

“Indeed, sir,” Lockheed agrees. “I just know, my lord, that you usually like to keep your personal clerk in line with the general clerks, rather than us, but the young lads _like_ Drumknott. They asked me if they can invite him to the next staff outing. Non-professional, like, of course, but it’s still crossed streams.”

There is something revealing in that phrasing.

 _The young lads like Drumknott_.

Certainly, none of the Dark Clerks had liked Wonse, and vice versa[2]; Vetinari’s past clerks had almost never had a rapport with the Dark Clerks, and a few of them had never seen them beyond their initial security briefings. Only his one or two personal clerks taken _from_ the Dark Clerks had commanded that sort of respect. Drumknott, of course, is on favourable terms with many of the Dark Clerks – several of them nod to him in the corridors, and Vetinari has noticed that he is afforded his title in their conversation. Vetinari’s previous clerks, to the Dark Clerks, had been Wonse, Percival, Vector, Jensen: Drumknott, quite singularly, is _Mr_ Drumknott.

“Has Mr Shaw invited Mr Drumknott to staff outings?” Vetinari asks.

“Yes, sir. But he’s refused all the invitations, sir, because he doesn’t like bars, clubs, pubs, zoos, boats, cafés, the theatre, dancing, sport, or restaurants.” Lockheed is evidently aware as he says it of precisely how absurd it is, and for a moment, he and Vetinari sit in the silence, enjoying the comfortable constancy in a young man like Drumknott being so consistently opposed – but not impolitely – to anything another young man might describe as “fun”.

“Well, where _were_ you planning to invite him?” Vetinari asks, finally.

“Clark and Yellowly[3] have a special guest exhibition on in the museum at the Guild of Historians’ on the history of stationery, and young Juniper figures that if we trick him into coming out for that, he’ll have a social obligation to come out to The Cap and Bells for one drink on the way back to the Palace.”

Juniper is one of Lockheed’s juniors, and leads some of the younger clerks – he’s coming into his thirties, now, and is remarkably quick on the draw. Vetinari is distantly aware that he’s surprisingly socially-minded for one of the Dark Clerks: if anything ever happens to make him lose his sense of extroversion, Vetinari is aware that he’ll become abruptly dangerous overnight.

“Juniper’s father is a trapper, isn’t he?”

“Juniper says the trick to a good trap is the right bait, my lord,” Lockheed confirms. “And stationery is _it_ for Mr Drumknott.”

“You clerks are as devious as they are tenacious, Mr Lockheed,” Vetinari says approvingly. “I won’t stand in the way of you if the Dark Clerks want to make an attempt at socialising with my personal clerk, although I will be singularly impressed if they manage it.”

“I as well, my lord,” Lockheed murmurs. “That’s everything I needed to go through with you… Is there anything you’d like us to keep an eye on this week?”

“Commander Vimes tells me there is someone seeking to eliminate various members of the Guild of Clerks and Secretaries. Do keep a close eye on our clerks, and take care as to any intruder who bribes his way past the guards and makes his way toward the Clerks’ Offices instead of up here.” Lockheed gives a neat inclination of his head.  

“Very well, my lord. Are there any particular clerks you want me to keep an eye on?”

“Take care of Mr Shaw,” Vetinari muses. “For the next little while, give him guards on a similar rotation to Mr Drumknott – I know it’s harder, given that Mr Shaw lives outside of the palace, but I should hate to lose him.[4]”

“Very well, my lord,” Lockheed says, and he stands to his feet. “Good evening.”

“Good evening, Mr Lockheed.”

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

On Friday evening, at six o’clock, some of the young clerks from the Clerks’ Office take an evening out together, walking out to some particularly sensible pub a little ways away, for the sake of what is called _team bonding_ , Vetinari supposes.

The Dark Clerks never use that sort of language. Perhaps it is because they are less concerned with efficiency on paper, but Vetinari is aware they don’t tend to take into account such factors as synergy or “building relations” with one another. They are, at their core, spies, and most of them do not share with one another their addresses, let alone try to connect to one another as team members.

Perhaps this is why their teamwork is ordinarily so superlative.

At six-thirty, Drumknott knocks on Vetinari’s office door. He had come in earlier in the morning, had asked if it would be possible to finish some hours early, that he might go with some of the Dark Clerks to the Guild of Historians’ Museum.

“Oh?” Vetinari had asked, arching one eyebrow. “Is there some special exhibition?”

“Yes, my lord, by Clark and Yellowly,” Drumknott had said, all but _bouncing_ on his heels[5]. “I know the manoeuvre is contrived, but it’s very thoughtful, nonetheless, and the Dark Clerks don’t drink nearly so much as the clerks do.” This had been… _surprising_ , but not immensely so. Vetinari appreciates Drumknott’ natural focus upon manners and politeness: he recognises the manipulation for what it is, and yet the contrivance serves to flatter, rather than to annoy him.

“It bothers you? Alcohol?”

Drumknott had taken a moment to consider his answer, as if he was used to offending with it.

“I see the appeal in people being— Tipsy. I appreciate that drink renders some people quite jolly. But I don’t like being around those who are insensible, my lord, and drinking establishments I would usually avoid. Once someone struggles to keep upright, I fear that the pursuit of fun has given way to folly.”

“I see,” Vetinari had murmured. “Well, of course, you have my permission, Drumknott, so long as I see you at six o’clock tomorrow morning, as usual.”

And now…

Drumknott has set his clerk’s robe aside, and even gone so far as to exchange his black cravat, which is always tightly knotted at his neck, for a cravat which is _almost_ black, but upon closer inspection, would reveal itself as very dark blue.

“I was going to walk down to the gate to meet with Mr Juniper, Lord Vetinari,” Drumknott says mildly, adjusting the set of his glasses on his nose. A good few of the Dark Clerks are working shifts through the night, after they come back from this outing, and others stay here in the Palace – he knows that Drumknott won’t be walking back to the Palace alone after dark. “Would you like me to get you anything before I go?”

“No, Drumknott, I don’t think so,” Vetinari says, and he moves his hand fast across the table: he watches Drumknott brace himself, his hands raising slightly to catch the expected projectile, but Vetinari pretends not to notice, merely taking up a piece of paper and making some notes on it, with no more flourish than usual. He glances up, and he sees Drumknott’s face, which is—

He isn’t _annoyed_. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“That isn’t funny, my lord,” he says, although his curved lips apparently disagree with him.

“What isn’t, Drumknott?” Vetinari asks, his tone as innocent as he can manage.

“Thank you, my lord,” Drumknott murmurs, smiling his private little smile, and he gives Vetinari a polite bow of his head before he steps out into the corridor, drawing his coat onto his shoulders over his suit. “Good night.”

“Good night, Drumknott,” Vetinari replies, and as the door clicks shut, he allows himself a small smile of his own.

There is some part of Vetinari, ordinarily set neatly aside, that enjoys play.

It is this instinct that calls on him more than anything as base as sexual attraction, where Drumknott is concerned – he’s such a young man, and yet in him Vetinari sees the silhouette of a potential opponent, not in his capacity as Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, but merely as a citizen of the city itself. This instinct is part of why his time with Vimes or Margolotta is so precious to him: they play with words; they play with games; they play with one puzzle and the next…

And yet here, Drumknott, who Vetinari had _invited_ to play chess, and who had said, “I’m not sure I would see the point…”

And yet he smiles and laughs at naught more than a game to test his reflexes. What might he be like, Vetinari wonders idly, with a blade to hand, were Vetinari to teach him how to pose his body, how to fight dagger-to-dagger with another?

But no.

Today, Vetinari has allowed himself already to be too distracted, thinking idly on one thing or another, and he has other things to be getting on with… Other things. He can consider Drumknott—

Later.

 

[1] Drumknott is left-handed by nature, but like many young men, has long-since been made to write with his right hand instead, and as stationery is generally made for the right-handed, he doesn’t complain.

[2] One could easily say this was a significant factor in Wonse’s downfall.

[3] _Stationers by appointment to the Patrician’s Office._

[4] His skill as Head Clerk not withstanding (excellent, very thorough), Mr Shaw supplies information to some of Vetinari’s favourite would-be murderers, including a group made up of some wealthy merchants generally opposed to Ankh-Morpork’s tax structure.

[5] “All but bouncing on his heels,” in Drumknott’s case, translates to, “with an almost indistinguishable air of exuberance, and with a slight gesture of one hand.”


	10. Deduction

The stationery exhibit had been _wonderful_.

All manner of different elements had been on display, creating a sort of timeline of the modern office, both in the home and in the professional sphere, and it had been beautifully and artistically arrayed. Drumknott had delighted in the variations of papers and pens and pencils, in the displays of office equipment—

And yet his mind lingers on one element, his thumb drawing over its place in the accompanying guide to the museum’s display. In the book, there is a neatly made sketch of a few wax tablets, the likes of which that had been often-used by the Latatians, the natural follow-on from clay tablets…

Yet in the exhibit itself, one tablet, the biggest one, had been missing. He had asked one of the staff, and they had shrugged and said they believed the tablet to have been lost whilst the elements of the exhibit were removed from storage in town.

“Did you enjoy the exhibition, Mr Drumknott?” asks Juniper, and Drumknott looks up from the pamphlet that he’d been perusing, allowing a small smile to take up its position on his mouth. They are coming closer to the Patrician’s Palace, and they have passed a few pubs by: he is aware, however, that there are a few pubs and bars close to the Palace, and he knows that one of them will stop.

The Dark Clerks, although they had done so quite subtly, had spent most of the time in the Historians’ Museum examining Drumknott instead of looking at the exhibit. It had been interesting, to watch the ways they did it – most of them made use of classical espionage techniques, using mirrored glass or diverting attention elsewhere. They would take turns, even, ensuring not all of them were looking at him at any one time, ensuring only one or two of them were observing him at a time.

Had Drumknott not been _looking_ for it, perhaps he wouldn’t have noticed it.

He likes the Dark Clerks.

Their quiet composure is… _admirable_.

He likes the way they fade into the background – most of the museum-goers hadn’t paid them any of them any heed, even Mr Lockheed who is such a broad, big man, and even as they walk down the street, the group of ten or so men walking in threes and pairs, no one really looks their way.

There’s a natural unobtrusiveness in the way each of them holds themselves, and Drumknott is glad to have that in common with them: he appreciates the order of it.

“It was very enjoyable, Mr Juniper,” Drumknott replies mildly, smiling just slightly. “My thanks, for thinking of me.”

Juniper smiles. He’s a little taller than Drumknott, but thinner, with round shoulders and dark hair he keeps tied up from his head in a tight bun, and he wears suits of light blues and greys, much brighter than the ordinary fare one would expect from a clerk. His reading glasses are eternally perched on top of his head, or hanging from his collar – Drumknott hasn’t ever seen Juniper actually read anything, and thus, has never seen him with them on his nose.

“We were thinking,” Juniper says, “of dropping into The Cap and Bells for a nightcap. You don’t have to join us, if you really don’t want to, of course – I’m sure it’ll be no bother for me to walk you back to the Palace and then come back.”

Drumknott smiles, mirroring the easy expression on Juniper’s face. It’s artfully done, Drumknott supposes – especially going so far as to offer to walk Drumknott home to the Palace, with the added footnote, of course, that he would have to walk back to the pub alone.

“Oh,” he says, “I think I can survive one drink in The Cap and Bells without inconveniencing the group.”

Juniper grins in triumph. His father is a hunter, Drumknott believes – this is perhaps the expression he makes when a rabbit or a bird is caught in one of his traps. How many of those, Drumknott wonders, walk politely into them?

“Very good, Mr Drumknott!” he says brightly.

“I think, given the casual nature of the occasion,” Drumknott says, “that Rufus will suffice.”

Juniper’s triumphant grin fades somewhat, replaced by a slightly softer smile. He looks surprised. Is it so surprising? Drumknott knows that he can perhaps be standoffish with the other clerks, although he doesn’t mean to be – he likes the rules and regiment of social standing, particularly in the work environment, and this makes him, he thinks, a little harder than perhaps he means to be.

But, within the Patrician’s Palace—

Outside of occasions like these, he thinks he should rather be fought of as hard and difficult to deal with, an object of potential resistance to any nonsense, than as a soft, fun person… But he doesn’t _dislike_ other people. He doesn’t _dislike_ to socialise.

“Very well,” Juniper says, and his hand touches the side of Drumknott’s shoulder. “Rufus. Call me Halton.”

Drumknott inclines his head, and he listens as Juniper turns back to address the others of the Dark Clerks, and mention their destination. The other Dark Clerks even have the spectacularly good graces to look surprised.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

They return to the Palace a little before half-past eleven. It is just beginning to rain as they make their way inside, but Drumknott is in a good mood – it had not been as terrible as he’d expected. The Dark Clerks had scarcely drunk at all, and sitting around a table, they had just… _talked_.

Not about their work in the Patrician’s Palace, but about almost everything, and they had drawn Drumknott into their conversations.

Mr Lockheed had spoken at length about the exhibit, even, and then he had playfully drawn Drumknott into a conversation about which of the items in the museum would be the most useful in a fight.

“How can you not say the stapler?” he had asked, clapping his hand down on Drumknott’s back as he’d sipped at his ginger beer. “It’s the unquestionable victor, Rufus! It’s _axiomatic_!”

“Axiomatic? I think not. I should say _obvious_ , Dustin. With the stapler, you might have immediate lethality, albeit with a sense of mechanised lack of creativity.” The Dark Clerks had let out “ooh!”s and expectant sounds, leaning back in their seats, and Drumknott had laughed softly. “But there are less expected choices.”

“Oh? And what office item, Drumknott, would _you_ make use of, in a pinch?”

“I lack one myself, of course,” Drumknott had said, “but how could I refuse a spindle?”

Lockheed had laughed, and it had been—

The conversation had been so _violent_ , but it had been done in such good humour, had come with such laughter… He’d enjoyed the conversation, and particularly as the evening had gone on, they’d discussed philosophy, ethics, talked and laughed…

And Juniper had been funny.

He had made jokes about stationery, _funny_ jokes, puns and pieces of wordplay…

It is one thing, when fellow appreciators of stationery engage one in conversation – one might argue and debate one factor over another, comparing this manufacturer to his obvious superior, engaging with the subject matter as if in itself, it is a duelling ground… But with these men, it’s different. _None_ of them like stationery. None of them actually _care_ about it, on a personal level…

But they ask him about it anyway.

It’s nice.

“Are you tired?” Juniper asks, as he and Drumknott ascend the stairs.

“Somewhat,” Drumknott answers, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I usually retire for bed at this time, though. Yourself?”

“I’m on shift at midnight,” Juniper replies, and Drumknott lets out a low sound of understanding, giving a nod of his head.

“Are you naturally inclined to the night shift? I know some people do better than others.”

“Yes,” Juniper says. “I’m more aligned with the night than the daytime, I fear.”

“You’ve chosen an apt profession, then.”

“Yes.”

“I— Oh.” Drumknott blinks at Juniper as the other clerk pushes him back against the wall of the darkened corridor, his hands cupping the sides of Drumknott’s neck, his thumbs touching the undersides of his jaw. Juniper’s hands are strong, but—

Slightly cold.

Juniper’s gaze flits over his face, and he says, “It was… pleasing. Seeing you excited. You don’t really show that, here in the Palace.”

“Don’t I?”

“No. You are the image of sangfroid.”

“My thanks.”

“You’re most welcome.”

Drumknott’s eyes close shut as Juniper leans in closer, feels the warmth of Juniper’s mouth over his own. His lips are soft, and Drumknott feels his stomach give an excited lurch as he leans into the touch, feels Juniper’s fingers curl through his hair, and it is _good_ , but… There is something missing in it. Something almost wooden.

Juniper leans back slightly, his fingers lingering on Drumknott’s cheeks.

“I’ve misjudged your interest.”

“This was merely unexpected.”

“But you don’t reciprocate my attraction.”

“Not as I expected to.”

“Very well.” Juniper draws his hands away. “My apologies.”

“No apologies are necessary. Thank you for your understanding.”

“Thank _you_. Good night, Rufus.”

“Good night, Halton,” Drumknott replies, and he watches as Juniper disappears into the darkness, making his way down the corridor.  Reaching up, he touches his mouth, letting his fingers drag over his own lips.

It’s—

Subtly wrong, the idea of Juniper kissing him. Oughtn’t he have leaned into it, though? Oughtn’t he have been _excited_ , oughtn’t he have thrummed with delight and with tension, as he had yesterday, when Lord Vetinari had pinned him

Exhaling, Drumknott makes his way further down the corridor, opening his bedroom door and stepping inside to undress for bed.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

“Your morning post, my lord,” Drumknott says as he enters the Oblong Office at six-fifteen precisely, and Lord Vetinari glances up from the annual budget from the Assassins’ Guild, leaning back to allow Drumknott to place a cup of tea on the side table, and to set some of the letters down.

“Anything important?”

“Not for the most part,” Drumknott says. “One is from a source in Quirm City, a tip that one Warner Gorton is making his way back to Ankh-Morpork. He’s a forger of some renown?”

“Ah, yes,” Vetinari murmurs, his lip twitching in a show of satisfaction. “I have a plan for Mr Gorton. Anything else?”

“A missive from Madam Roberta[1], my lord,” Drumknott says, holding out the envelope, and he sees something change slightly in Lord Vetinari’s face. His icy gaze softens just slightly, and he takes the envelope with care from Drumknott’s hand, smiling as he draws the letter from the envelope, his gaze scanning over the page. He likes the way Lord Vetinari warms when he receives post from Madam Roberta – he always smiles, even more so if she’s rude or demanding about something, and it is—

It’s nice to see him smile like that.

Drumknott waits patiently before him to scan the rest of the letter, not wanting to interrupt. Only when Vetinari neatly sets the letter aside and looks back to Drumknott does Drumknott say, “I wonder, my lord, if you examined the literature associated with the Clark and Yellowly exhibition?”

Vetinari looks at him for a moment.

“I regret, Drumknott,” he says slowly, and with some caution, “I did not. Why do you ask?”

Drumknott holds out the guide to the exhibition he had been examining last night, and he sees the way Vetinari’s glance goes immediately to the section of the page devoted to the wax tablets.

 _Three wax tablets, loaned from the archives at the Ankh-Morpork Latatian Society, on Silver Street._ _Made use of in antiquity, wax tablets like these were very popular in schoolrooms before paper was so easy to produce, as well as secretarial tools._

Vetinari’s smile is just a slight, angular shift of his lips. “Was one of these tablets missing, Mr Drumknott?”

“Indeed, sir,” Drumknott says. “The largest of the three.”

“Stolen?”

“Apparently, lost, either in the archives themselves, or misplaced whilst in transit.”

“How curious.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Thank you, Drumknott. Did you enjoy the exhibition?”

“Yes, my lord, immensely,” Drumknott says. He thinks of Juniper pushing him back against the wall in the corridor, lightly assertive but ready to yield, so polite… And, strangely enough, he feels a twist of guilt in his belly. Had he taken up with Juniper, what then? It’s—

It’s a strange thought. Once more, he is aware of his reluctance to juggle both his work and any sort of romance, anything of the kind, and yet equally he thinks of Lord Vetinari with his warm fingers gripping tightly at Drumknott’s, their chests together, Vetinari looking down at him with an expression of superior amusement on his face…

Drumknott’s mouth is dry.

“Will that be all, my lord?”

“Yes, Drumknott, thank you,” Vetinari says, and Drumknott steps from the office, exhaling slightly as he takes to his desk. This interest in Vetinari is… Not _useful_. Not _helpful_. It’s merely a distraction, a… A distraction.

But Juniper hadn’t been right, either, he doesn’t think. He’d felt too short, his hands too cold, and his cleanshaven face, even, had been wrong, it would have been better, had he a beard, a goatee, even—

Drumknott stares down at the grain of his desk.

No.

Best not to think about that.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

When Mr Shaw comes upstairs at eleven o’clock, Drumknott glances up at him, surprised. It is not ordinary, that Mr Shaw come up to his office – he makes a few trips per day down to the Clerks’ Office, but rarely is the journey made in reverse, and Mr Shaw is… _Nervous_. Uncertain and shifting regularly from one foot to the other, his hands fidgeting, he looks at Drumknott and seems as if he might be ill.

“Mr Shaw?”

“Mr Drumknott,” Shaw says, and his usual irritation where Drumknott is concerned, politely professional, but cold, is gone. His demeanour has the sheen of anxiety. “I, ah— I wondered… I’m not sure what to do, I thought I ought come to you before I came to Mr Lockheed.”

“Oh?” Drumknott asks, standing from his desk and closing Lord Vetinari’s appointment book, slipping it into a pocket. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s Mr Meridian,” Shaw says. “He hasn’t come in this morning – he’s already two hours late.”

“Well, the clerks had their outing last night, did they not? How much did he have to drink?” Drumknott doesn’t bother to hide the disapproval in his voice, but Shaw barely seems to notice him, shaking his head.

“No, no, he was _drunk_ , of course, but that’s never stopped him coming into work before,” Shaw says. “He’s never hungover – the lad has an astonishing constitution. I’m just worried he didn’t get home, or that he had an accident, but— That fellow killing the _clerks_ , Mr Drumknott.”

“Mr Shaw,” Drumknott says, noting the beginnings of hysteria in the other man’s face, and he puts his hands on the other man’s shoulders[2], bracing him. “I expect he was just ill this morning, or perhaps he was detained. Come.”

He’s right, of course. None of the clerks in the city would miss their work without warning, and _particularly_ not a clerk working in the Patrician’s Palace, and besides that, Meridian measures punctuality above most over factors. He wouldn’t want to be late by minutes. To be late by hours is unthinkable…

With that said, Shaw is already insensible just _thinking_ about the matter. Drumknott can see that.

“Come in,” Vetinari says, and Drumknott pushes the door open, leaving Shaw in the doorway as he approaches his lordship’s desk.

“May I be excused for an hour, my lord? There is a matter I need to look into across the bridge in Seven Sleepers: it oughtn’t take long.” Vetinari meets Drumknott’s gaze, and then his gaze flits to Shaw, who stands still in the doorway. Drumknott can hear him shaking.

“Will Mr Shaw be accompanying you?” Vetinari asks.

“No, my lord,” Drumknott says. “Mr Shaw will be going directly to Pseudopolis Yard as I proceed to Tomnoddy Street.”

“Mr Meridian?”[3]

“He hasn’t showed up for work this morning, my lord.”

“How unlike him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, Drumknott.”

Nodding his head, Drumknott takes a step back toward the door, and he catches his coat from the rack, drawing it onto his shoulders as he moves swiftly with the shaking Mr Shaw down the stairs and toward the main hall of the Palace.

“Who is in charge in the Clerks’ Office?” Drumknott asks.

“Mr Salaom,” Shaw answers. “Mr Drumknott, I should go with you, you oughtn’t go alone—”

“I won’t be alone,” Drumknott says, gesturing vaguely with his head. He flags down one of the guards as they move quickly toward the gatehouse. “Jacob Rudder, isn’t it?”

“Yessir,” Rudder says.

“Very good, Rudder. Walk with Mr Shaw to Pseudopolis Yard. Quick now.”

“Yessir!” Rudder says. The Palace Guard respond very well to instructions, when uttered in the appropriately authoritative tone: it is only later on that Drumknott is aware of precisely how authoritative his tone must be in the moment, even as he moves out into the street…

He runs toward the Maudlin Bridge, his boots slapping against the wet cobblestones as he moves, his glasses held loosely in one hand, and he ignores the hollers and calls that follow anyone who seems to be in a hurry on the streets of Ankh-Morpork: adrenaline and a sense of _need_ take over his senses, and by the time he comes to a stop at Tomnoddy Street, his chest is _aching_ , and he can’t prevent himself from breathing hard and heavily as he comes toward Meridian’s home…

His family are from Sto Helit – the little house here on Tomnoddy Street had been his brother’s, if Drumknott recalls correctly. The brother had died in a cart accident just as Meridian was finishing school.

Part of Drumknott wants to be optimistic. Part of Drumknott wants to say, “But he must be alright, because on Tuesday, Mr Lockheed and I are going to sort out this nonsense, and we’ll actually be able to get on a professional footing with one another, and Meridian will take over from Mr Shaw when Mr Shaw retires, and all will be well.” This part of Drumknott is the part of him that used to say things like, “Maybe Dad hasn’t had that much to drink this evening.”

Drumknott isn’t one made for optimism any longer.

He pushes open the door of the little house, and he doesn’t even have to step in past the little welcome mat: his body twisted and stiff where it sits at his kitchen table, his throat open to the air, Piers Meridian sits in a shining pool of his own blood that has dripped thick and sticky down his trouser legs, forming a puddle at his feet. A glass of water, half-drunk and stained with bloody fingerprints, rests on the glass in front of him, as well as a plate of half-eaten dry watercrackers – something to soak up the alcohol before he went to bed, Drumknott expects.

He closes the door neatly shut behind him, and he sits down on the doorstep his fingers interlinking beneath his chin. He ignores the pain in his chest from running, and the flush in his cheeks, and even ignores the desperate pang of _injustice_ in him.

It had been one thing, as a bare thought in the aftermath of a vague embarrassment, to think of Meridian dead.

This is rather different.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

“Mr Drumknott,” says a voice above him.

“Hello, Captain Ironfoundersson,” Drumknott says quietly. He looks up at the giant, strapping figure of Carrot, silhouetted against the midday sun: his red hair catches the light quite astonishingly, making it look as if his head is wreathed in a crown of pure flame. “Corporal Nobbs.” Corporal Nobbs cuts no figure at all.

“Mr Shaw, your co-worker,” Carrot says, “he’s worried that, uh, that something has happened here. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Drumknott says. “A murder, actually. I would estimate that Mr Meridian has been dead since at least last night – I imagine his murderer slit his throat just before he went to bed, because he seemed to have been in the process of sobering up. The blood is quite congealed, and his body has already begun the process of rigor mortis… The front door was open. I suppose he hadn’t thought to lock it yet.”

“Mr Shaw fainted,” Nobbs says. “You gonna do that?”

“No,” Drumknott answers. “No, I don’t expect so.”

“Good,” Nobby says, and he steps past Drumknott, pushing the door open and stepping in.

Drumknott remains in his place as Carrot kneels down in front of him. Even crouched like this, he still has to look down at Drumknott sat on the step, and Drumknott looks at the sympathy in Carrot’s earnest expression, at his freckled cheeks and his brightly blue eyes.

He’s very handsome, Drumknott thinks, dispassionately. And part of the reason he’s so handsome is because he doesn’t even think about it. It isn’t that he doesn’t _know_ he’s handsome – he just doesn’t think it’s important.

There’s something very engaging about that sort of charm.

“It’s alright, you know, if you feel a little sick,” Carrot says quietly. “No one will think the worst of you for it.”

Drumknott feels disconnected from much of the world around him, and he rests his chin on the heel of his hand, looking at Carrot very seriously. He _likes_ Carrot. He isn’t just charming and handsome – he’s kind, and he believes in righting injustices, and he does things by the _book_ , and that’s… That’s so very admirable, particularly given how the Watch had been just a few years ago.

But at the moment, Drumknott doesn’t want kind, gentle Carrot, telling him it will be alright. He’s never put much stock in that sort of thing: he never has, but right now, it feels particularly unjust. He doesn’t deserve it, and for that matter, he doesn’t really want to.

“Do you remember a little while back,” Drumknott says, “and I had had that altercation with Mr Breeze, and Mr Hawthorne? You were still rather new on the job, and you rushed in to see me looking into the harbour, and you realized Mr Hawthorne was drowning in the water?”

“Yes, of course,” Carrot says. “You were frozen with the shock, and I had to dive in to pull Mr Hawthorne out before he drowned!”

“Yes,” Drumknott says.

“It would have been a terrible thing,” Carrot says. “To see a man die like that.”

“It didn’t feel so terrible,” Drumknott replies conversationally, “when I was watching him.”

Something subtle changes in Carrot’s face. He leans back slightly on his heels, and he doesn’t frown, but his eyes narrow just slightly, like he’s looking at Drumknott in a new way. Drumknott has drawn his line in the sand, here, and he isn’t certain if he ought have done it.

Exhaling, he draws himself slowly to his feet, and Carrot rises with him. Still, he looks at him in that strange, slightly pinched way, not saying anything. Drumknott gets the impression he’s rather ruined himself for Carrot, and ruined the impression he had. Vimes knows exactly what Drumknott is, Drumknott thinks, or—

Vimes knows the start, at least.

“I’ll walk on to Pseudopolis Yard,” he says quietly, wiping off his hands idly. “And tell them it’s a murder scene. Unless you’d like me to remain in attendance?”

“No,” Carrot says quietly. “No, I don’t think you need to do that, Mr Drumknott. You sure you’ll be alright, walking back? This must have been quite a shock.”

Drumknott hesitates, and he glances up at Carrot[4]. Carrot’s handsome face reveals no unkindness, no lack of care: he is his same, earnest self, wanting to look after everyone in Ankh-Morpork.

“Not as much of a shock as I wish it was,” Drumknott says quietly. “Myself and Mr Shaw both knew, I think, before we left the Palace. Sometimes, Captain, I think one knows these things, before one really _knows_. You take my meaning?”

“Yes,” Carrot says, and he gently pats Drumknott’s back. “Yes, I understand, Mr Drumknott.”

Drumknott walks back to Pseudopolis Yard, and submits himself for questioning by Sergeant Angua.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

The clerks’ office is in disarray when Drumknott comes back from Pseudopolis Yard, but he does not make a clatter or a loud fuss over his arrival. He stands, his hands behind his back and his shoulders high, drawn up to his full height[5] in the very centre of the rows of desk in the offices. Clerks are scattered about the room, sitting on one another’s desks or engaged in small clusters, chattering, exchanging gossip…

 _Panicking_.

It is a little before two o’clock in the afternoon, and although word had been sent back to the Palace about Mr Meridian’s murder, Mr Shaw had not yet been able to return. He’s still at Pseudopolis Yard, assisting the Watch with their inquiry, and it is evident that Mr Salaom has not bothered whatsoever in trying to keep the clerks in line…

It’s quite unacceptable. It _grates_ on him, that one should allow the office to fall into such chaos, when external forces are already causing a problem, and then to allow the _internal_ form to slip… It is unacceptable: it is _unbecoming_ , and Drumknott sets his jaw, raising his left hand for silence.

It doesn’t take long.

Later on, rumours flit quickly back and forth about the Patrician’s personal clerk, and how much chill he can put into his eyes, wondering as to whether he’s learned that icy demeanour from Lord Vetinari himself: in the moment, none of them dare to say a word. Their jaws clap shut, one-by-one, and they all move forward, staring down at Drumknott.

“Mr Shaw,” Drumknott says quietly, but with a surprising depth of projection, his voice carrying well in the high-ceilinged room, “is still with the Watch, and will not return to work until this evening. Mr Meridian, I am sorry to say, was discovered dead at his home this morning.”

“You found him?” one of the clerks, a golden-haired young man named Jackson, asks. Drumknott inclines his head. “It was that man that’s killing clerks, right? The devotee of Pippina?”

“Mr Fabian Jackson, isn’t it?” Drumknott asks. He knows the file by heart: 24 years old, a Genuan by birth, lives on Legitimate Lane, near to the racetrack. He has six sisters, all of them younger than him, and he dotes on them. He puts most of his salary into savings for them.

The clerk leans back slightly, his eyes widening a little, but then he nods. “Yessir.”

“More information will be given as the Watch keeps us apprised with their investigation,” Drumknott says cleanly. “I would not, I am sure you will understand, be inclined to gossip as to the state in which I discovered the deceased.”

“But—” Drumknott’s gaze lands on Jackson’s face, his expression cool, and the young man gibbers for a moment before coughing and shutting his mouth. “Yes, sir,” Jackson mutters, looking down toward the tile.

“Mr Shaw will assist the Watch in contacting Mr Meridian’s family members in Sto Helit. He will return in a few hours, and some of the Watch will want to question those of you who were with the staff outing last night, that they might ascertain with veracity his last-known whereabouts before returning home.”

“Where were you?” Drumknott turns levelly to look at the speaker: an older clerk, forty-seven years old, with auburn hair that is beginning to give way to silver. He has his hands on his hips, his thumbs hooked into the give of his trouser pockets. Salaom is a native Ankh-Morporkian, and began to work at the Patrician’s Palace some years before Lord Vetinari took over as Patrician.

“Mr Peter Salaom?” Drumknott asks. The clerk does not hesitate, merely gives a stout nod: he has a scowl on his face, and is looking at Drumknott in the way many men do, when looking at young men higher than them on the professional totem pole. His expression, quite politely, pronounces Drumknott an _upstart_ , although his lips remain tightly pursed. “It is not in my habit to diarise my nightly habits at the pleasure of my subordinates, Mr Salom, but to curb your worries, I will inform you that last night myself and some of the Dark Clerks visited the Historians’ Museum, before taking a drink in The Cap and Bells.

“If any of you are close personal friends of Mr Meridian, I should understand if you would like to take some hours aside – with that said, there is work to be done, and I imagine many of you would appreciate the distraction. I have—”

“ _You’re_ managing us?” Salaom interrupts.

The room, many of the clerks say later with shakes of their heads and rueful looks on their faces, seems to drop by five degrees in temperature. So interrupted, Drumknott stands very still, and he turns his gaze from the clipboard in his arms to Mr Salaom. One of his eyebrows raises in silent expectation.

Salaom takes a step forward, his arms crossed tightly over the barrel of his chest, a scowl dragging at his lips as he looks down at Drumknott[6], and then he demands, “Without Mr Shaw or Mr Meridian to hand, _I_ manage the clerks.”

Drumknott says nothing. His gaze remains fixated on Salaom’s face, and Salaom stands only a few moments in the thick tension of the silence before he continues, with a little less blustering confidence, “There’s no need of you down here, Mr Drumknott. You don’t know how the clerks’ office works, and with _all due respect **[7]**,_ you’re scarcely more than a boy – I don’t know what ideas working under the Patrician has put in your head, but…”

Salaom trails off, apparently stunned into silence by the uninterrupted weight of Drumknott’s stare on his face. Drumknott’s expression does not change: it remains politely anticipatory, as one looking at a firework that, fuse already burned to the wick, has not seen fit to go off.

“I think,” Salaom says, with an attempt at authority only marginally let down by the slight crack in his voice and the deep flush in his cheeks, “that you ought go take after the Patrician, and leave the clerks to me.”

“Your input is noted, Mr Salaom,” Drumknott says in a light, casual tone. “It is so important, I feel, for clerks to speak their minds on matters of urgency.” Salaom’s shoulders slump slightly in a show of outward relief: from the back, sweat shows through his robe at the back of his neck.

“Right, Mr Drumknott, I—”

Drumknott raises a single index finger, and Salaom stops short, staring at it.

“You are Mr Peter Salaom of 14 Esoteric Street?”

“Er, I—  Yes—”

“Across from Madame Frout’s Academy for Inquiring Young Minds?”

“Yes,” Salaom says. He has the air, one of the clerks later comments, of a man drowning, having been introduced to the concept of water only minutes before.

“Very good, Mr Salaom. I shall send your notice to this address forthwith. Good afternoon.” The silence in the Clerks’ Office is so all-encompassing that none of the clerks dare even to breathe.

“My— my notice?” Salaom asks in a choked voice.

“Of your dismissal, Mr Salaom,” Drumknott says, making an absent-minded note on his clipboard and not bothering to look up at his increasingly reddening face. “Good afternoon.”

“But I— But I’ve worked here twenty years!” Salaom blurts out.

“And what fine service it has been, up to now. Thank you very much, Mr Salaom. Good afternoon.”

“I—”

“Mr Salaom,” Drumknott says, and he speaks so softly that all of the other clerks in the room have to strain to hear him. “I do not advise you force me to bid you farewell for a fourth time.”

Peter Salaom gulps, hard, and then he doesn’t say anything more: he all but _runs_ out into the corridor, not stopping to so much as pick up his coat. Drumknott does not turn to watch him leave, and instead remains still in the centre of the room, every clerk staring at him with their eyes wide.

Drumknott smiles.

It is not a very pleasant smile. It is a secretarial smile, and presented as it is, with his brown eyes very, very hard, it gives the impression of oncoming danger, presented in the neatest and most well-organised way possible.

“Would anyone else,” Drumknott asks in a friendly tone that does not match the cold expression on his face, “like to raise any concerns, or shall we return to work?”

The clerks scramble to return to their desks.

“Very good,” Drumknott says, and he looks to his clipboard for the day’s working schedule.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

“Would you like tomorrow off?” Vetinari asks Drumknott as he brings a stack of paperwork into the room, and Drumknott ignores the roiling wave of nausea that makes itself known in his belly. He hadn’t eaten lunch, and at dinner, he had only eaten a little bread and butter and nothing more. The questioning at Pseudopolis Yard had been exhaustive, and almost as soon as he’d returned to the Palace, he’d had to whip the Clerks’ Office back into shape before he could return to his own duties.

“No, thank you, my lord,” Drumknott says, setting the things that need signing and sealing on the top of the pile.

“You look ill.” Vetinari’s tone is difficult to judge, and Drumknott glances at him, but of course, nothing is revealed in his face.

“My apologies, my lord.”

“Captain Ironfoundersson expressed some concern about you, and requested that I ensure someone _look after_ you.” Drumknott pauses in straightening up some of the papers on Vetinari’s desk, and he looks at the Patrician with a slightly horrified look on his face, feeling his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“Oh,” he says quietly. The nausea steadies itself. “He oughtn’t have done that.”

“Perhaps not,” Vetinari agrees wryly, and he signs the last of the papers, blotting it delicately. “Is there anything else pressing for the evening, Drumknott?”

“No, my lord, I don’t believe so,” Drumknott says.

“Very well,” Vetinari says, standing to his feet. “Wuffles, come. Drumknott, you too.”

Frowning, Drumknott glances to the papers on Vetinari’s desk, but Vetinari speaks rather briskly, and he takes up his cane to support his bad leg as they move out of the Oblong Office and down the stairs. Drumknott can’t help but wonder how much he _needs_ the cane – Vetinari moves far too fast to seem to be reliant on it, and yet…

It seems an odd thing to fake, but then, Drumknott is wearing glasses, isn’t he? A cane, in comparison, is a natural piece of pageantry, particularly when the people _know_ Lord Vetinari was shot.

Vetinari leads Drumknott down the stairs and into one of the long halls on the ground floor. The candles are already lit, and Drumknott sees the mats that are laid down for fencing practice. He had heard some of the Dark Clerks mention fencing together last night, and this must be the room for it, but for now, it is empty, the curtains drawn over the vaulted windows that line one side of the room.

He watches, dumbly, as Lord Vetinari sets his cane on a table to the side of the room, his fingers moving quickly over his robe. The breast buttons are neatly and swiftly unhooked, the stiff fabric giving way, and Drumknott is aware that his mouth is open as Lord Vetinari slides the outer cassock from his shoulders, hanging it neatly over the back of a chair.

Vetinari stands before him in his shirtsleeves, a pair of trousers hugging tightly to his surprisingly muscular thighs and calves, his boots hugging tight to halfway up his lower leg; his vest seems much stiffer than an ordinary waistcoat is, and Drumknott stares, stunned, as Lord Vetinari begins to unbutton his _shirt cuffs_ , rolling his white shirt up to the elbows. A few scars mar the pale flesh of Lord Vetinari’s forearms.

Without his robe on over the clothes, Vetinari seems… _Bigger_. Lord Vetinari is a thin, naturally frail-looking man, and the dusty robe had rather added to this impression – like this, his clothes hugging tightly to the figure of his body, Vetinari looks a good deal more _athletic_. Still thin, yes, and still somewhat sickly-looking in how pale he is, how much his veins show beneath his skin, but more…

More dangerous.

Drumknott’s heart is beating slightly faster in his chest.

“Take off your robe,” Vetinari instructs cleanly, his voice echoing in the empty room. Even as he speaks, he is delicately undoing the pins that keep his skullcap in place, and drawing it from his head. His hair is a little longer than Drumknott had thought. “Your blazer as well, if you would. Shirtsleeves will do.”

“My lord?” Drumknott asks.

“You don’t appear to be moving, Drumknott.”

“I don’t understand,” Drumknott says. His head is spinning.

“I don’t believe I asked you to understand: I asked you to remove your robe and your suit blazer.”

His hands moving entirely without his permission, Drumknott shrugs the robe from his shoulders, and then he unbuttons the two buttons on his suit jacket, letting that slide from his shoulder as well. He hangs both over the second chair beside the table, and now he looks at the table itself, which is…

“That’s a lot of knives,” he says dully. Beside him, Wuffles hops up onto the chair with Vetinari’s robe on it, curling back against the familiar black fabric.

“Yes,” Vetinari agrees.

“Are you going to kill me, my lord?” Drumknott asks.

“I wasn’t planning to, no.”

“Very well.”

Reaching out, Vetinari unbuttons one of Drumknott’s shirt cuffs, and Drumknott heaves in a gasp as he feels Vetinari’s fingers run over his cold wrist, neatly folding his cuff back to his elbow. He is aware, distantly, of precisely how skinny Vetinari’s arms are – the muscle on his hands is quite distinct, the fingers long and slender, but his wrists aren’t all that thicker than Drumknott’s own, and Vetinari is a good deal paler than Drumknott, who has a natural ruddiness to his complexion.

Drumknott lets Vetinari take his other wrist, and as Vetinari rolls up the sleeve in the same business-like fashion, Drumknott lets his gaze flit up to Vetinari’s face. Vetinari’s expression is concentrated and thoughtful, and when he finishes pushing Drumknott’s shirt cuff to the right place, he lingers with one of his hands touching Drumknott’s wrist.

“You don’t drink, Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari says.

“No, my lord,” Drumknott says.

“You don’t take much exercise, either,” he adds. Drumknott hesitates. He thinks of the burning ache in his chest as he’d skidded to a stop outside of Meridian’s house…

“I— No, my lord, I don’t. I never liked sports.”

“No,” Vetinari murmurs. His thumb is pressed against the pulsepoint on Drumknott’s wrist, and suddenly he seems much closer, so close that Drumknott is dizzy with it. His thumb is so _warm_ , so much warmer than Juniper’s fingers had been. “You don’t smoke.”

“No, my lord, never.”

“Do you have _any_ vices, Drumknott?” Veinari asks, his tone almost teasing, and inexplicably, Drumknott feels his cheeks warm even more.

“My temper, my lord,” he answers ruefully.

Vetinari smiles.

“Pick a weapon,” he says, and when his hands come away from Drumknott’s wrists, Drumknott feels the loss keenly. The room isn’t all that cold, and the fireplace is lit, but nonetheless…

His gaze flits to the array of knives on the table.

“I don’t know how to use any of these, my lord.”

“That’s alright,” Vetinari says. “Pick whatever seems natural.”

Drumknott hesitates, but then he reaches for a short, silver dagger. The pommel is rounded, but plain, and the grip is of dark leather that feels rough under his palm. It’s heavier than he’d expected, but it fits well in his hand, and he tests the weight experimentally.

Reaching forward, Vetinari’s fingers move to correct his grip, and Drumknott feels, in the moment, like he can’t breathe. There’s something maddening, about seeing Vetinari like this, _undressed_ – without his skullcap, without his robes, looking so—

He can see the veins on his _forearms_ , and Vetinari is standing shoulder to shoulder with him, is so _warm_ …

“These are the quillons,” he says quietly, indicating the two edges at the base of the dagger. “They make up the crossguard: on a sword, it will protect your hand in the event your blade comes against someone else’s. With a dagger like this one, of course, the benefit is mainly in assisting your grip, and in the aesthetic. Compare that knife with this one…” Vetinari picks up another dagger, this one with a curved, nasty-looking blade. “This is the bolster. This is all about grip – see how it faces toward the grip, instead of the blade?”

Drumknott nods.

“Feel the blade,” Vetinari instructs, and Drumknott carefully touches his fingers to the edge of the blade, immediately drawing them back. The dagger is _sharp_ , sharp enough that it feels like it could cut the _air_ , let alone his skin. “Now, Drumknott,” Vetinari murmurs, and he leans in closer, his breath hot against the shell of Drumknott’s ear, his hand resting on Drumknott’s hip on the other side. Drumknott feels as if he could swoon. “I want you to try to cut me.”

Abruptly, the base drops out of Drumknott’s stomach, and he feels a wave of dizziness threaten to bowl him over.

“Beg pardon, my lord?” he asks weakly, and he turns to the side to see Vetinari looking at him expectantly, already stepping back toward one of the mats.

“Come,” he instructs, beckoning with two fingers. In his other hand rests a loosely held dagger – the same sort Drumknott is holding, Drumknott sees.

“But— But we can’t…” Drumknott says breathlessly. “My lord, these blades aren’t dulled, they aren’t for practice.” Vetinari looks at him for a moment, his head tilting slightly to one side as he examines Drumknott, and Drumknott wonders, for a moment, what it would actually be _like_ for Vetinari to—

Best not to think about it.

“Drumknott,” Vetinari says lightly, “do you think I’m going to hurt you?”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott says. The little, hopeful part of him says, _Gods, I hope so_.

“Then do you think, perhaps, that _you_ will manage to hurt _me_?”

“Not— Not really, my lord, no.”

“Then what does it matter if the blades are sharp?”

Drumknott opens his mouth to argue, but no suitable riposte makes itself known, and he is already walking slowly forward to join Lord Vetinari on the mat. His heart is pounding now, and he can hear his blood rushing in his ears.

“If I— Might I ask, my lord, to what end is this exercise performed?”

“There are multiple benefits,” Vetinari replies. “The exercise will do us each good, much as our afternoon walk does.” **_Our_** _afternoon walk?_ Drumknott’s mind echoes helplessly. “And you really ought be taught some skills in this arena… Beyond that, sparring like this is rather good for me. Do you know why I enjoy games like chess and Thud, Drumknott?”

“Because they’re games of strategy, my lord,” Drumknott says. “You like strategy.”

“True,” Vetinari allows. “But no, I like them, Drumknott, because with the right opponent, I am able to become cognizant of my own weaknesses, that I might improve upon them. This exercise will, I hope, proffer a similar virtue.” It occurs to him that Lord Vetinari does not speak so frankly with anyone else in the city. He only speaks this plainly, Drumknott thinks, with Lady Margolotta, and with Madam Roberta… And now, with Drumknott.

“And you won’t let me cut you, sir?” Drumknott asks, all but _begs_ , not quite able to keep the desperate horror out of his voice.

“You won’t manage it tonight,” Vetinari promises him, his voice low and quiet. It’s as insidious as a threat, insinuating itself in Drumknott’s body and twisting itself about his every nerve – _you won’t manage it tonight_ , that promise says, _but you will one night, and what a night that will be_.

Vetinari looks—

Not excited, not in the way anyone else would look excited, but there’s a certain energy that seems to crackle on the air between them[8], and Drumknott feels drunk on it. Thoughts of Meridian are quite forgotten – his mind is overtaken, now, with Lord _Vetinari_ , half-undressed, with a knife in his hand, and inviting Drumknott to try to _strike_ him.

“I don’t know how—”

“It’s rather intuitive, Drumknott,” Vetinari breaks in, and Drumknott takes a step forward, moving as fast as he can to bring the blade across Vetinari’s bare left arm, but Vetinari moves inhumanly fast, and in the next second, he has Drumknott in the position he’d caught him in when he’d been moving through the corridors after dark, on one of his first nights in the Palace—

Vetinari’s hand grips so tightly at Drumknott’s hair that Drumknott’s scalp tingles, and he can feel the blade pressed up against his throat: Drumknott’s hand is still free, though, and so he tries to bring it against the side of Vetinari’s vest, which—

“Is that _armoured_?” he hears himself ask, as if through a wall. “That’s not _fair_!”

Vetinari laughs, and _that_ sound, that is as clear as a bell peal, ringing in his ears and making him swallow. He shifts his hand lower, moving to cut at Lord Vetinari’s thigh through his trousers, but Vetinari does _something_ , twists his body, and Drumknott’s dagger clatters across the floor.

He grabs for Vetinari’s wrist, but the dagger is no longer there, transferred to the other hand, and Drumknott is holding the Patrician’s wrist for no reason at all, a dagger poised to pierce his back, if he moves wrong.

“A strong effort, for a novice,” Vetinari murmurs in his ear. Drumknott is abruptly aware of how tightly their bodies are pressed together, their chests together, one of Vetinari’s feet between Drumknott’s, his thigh up against Drumknott’s to keep him from twisting away without falling over.

“This is going to kill me,” Drumknott says.

“I told you, Drumknott,” Vetinari says reproachfully. “I’m not going to cut you.”

“I didn’t mean the _knives_ ,” Drumknott says. Vetinari’s expression freezes for just a second, but then it smooths out, returning to a natural neutrality. Had he been wrong, to say that? Had it implied too much? He hadn’t meant to imply anything untoward, hadn’t—

“Come,” Vetinari murmurs, and he steps away, gesturing for Drumknott to pick up his dagger. “I’ll show you a few stances.” Drumknott moves back, crouching for the dagger, and then he turns back to look at Lord Vetinari, to really _look_ at him, see every way in which Lord Vetinari is not Carrot Ironfoundersson, or Avram Burlac, or Halton Juniper, or any other attractive man in Ankh-Morpork… And that stupid, stupid, hopeful part of him says, _Gods, I hope he kisses me_.

He doesn’t.

Why would he?

 

[1] Her ladyship, Roberta Meserole, known as “Madam” by many, and “Bobbi” to those brave enough to call her a friend, is Lord Vetinari’s aunt.

[2] This is something of an achievement, as Mr Shaw is a little taller than Lord Vetinari, and Drumknott has to reach _up_ for the purpose.

[3] Either Drumknott or Vetinari can be relied upon to remember the names, dates of birth, addresses, and a handful of salient details about half of the citizens of Ankh-Morpork: as for members of the Palace Staff, they tend to know every biographical detail.

[4] And _up_ he must look, as Carrot is over a foot taller than Drumknott, and twice as broad.

[5] Which, at just under 5’4”, is far from impressive.

[6] Mr Salaom stands at just shy of six foot, but Drumknott never shows a sign of noticing this.

[7] A phrase that rarely implies any respect is due at all.

[8] Were they in Überwald, thunder would have crashed, and lightning flashes would have illuminated the room strangely at intervals.


	11. Cut.

Vetinari hears the click of Drumknott’s bedroom door closing behind him, and he moves back toward his own bedroom. He’d come from his own quarters when he’d heard the unfamiliar pair of steps in the corridor, and when he’d seen it was Juniper and Drumknott, he’d relaxed somewhat…

And Juniper had _surprised_ him.

“I— Oh,” he’d heard Drumknott say, closer to the wall than he had been, and Vetinari had caught a glimpse in the reflection of a polished candlestick holder, seen Juniper with his hands either side of Drumknott’s head, with the smaller clerk back against the wall. He’d expected to feel some irritation, seeing someone else holding Drumknott back – he certainly had, _imagining_ it, but in this moment, he’d felt naught at all.

They’d spoken to one another in that polite, clerkly manner some of the clerks take up – quick, efficient, slightly stunted in its coldness, and then Juniper had _kissed_ him… Vetinari had watched, had seen the way Drumknott remained utterly still even as Juniper’s mouth had closed over his own…

And so professional.

_“You don’t reciprocate my attraction.”_

_“Not as I expected to.”_

Vetinari feels himself smile slightly as he turns back through the secreted corridor, making his way back to his own quarters… There is no triumph, no childish pleasure at seeing Drumknott rebuff someone else – in all honesty, he _ought_ pursue Juniper, a man his own age, and so similar to him, despite being in separate streams of the clerk hierarchy, but…

He had thought about Drumknott, idly, as he’d retired to his bedroom. Not in any lascivious sense, but merely in regards to the way he’d taken up with the Dark Clerks. Lockheed had been right, when he’d said that ordinarily Vetinari prefers to have his personal clerks in line with the general Palace clerks, unless he takes on a Dark Clerk at the beginning, but in Drumknott’s case…

It seems like a waste of such potential, to leave him as is.

He moves so silently, and with his reflexes, with his potential for ruthlessness, maybe he _ought_ put Drumknott to work with some of the Dark Clerks, that he might take up their drills. He’s certain enough that the young man has the measure of at least half of the ciphers that pass over Vetinari’s desk, although he never asks for assistance in puzzling them out, knowing he ought not.

As for the infatuation, that is another matter entirely.

Wuffles hops up into his lap as he sits at his desk, and he allows it, absently stroking the wiry hair on the little dog’s back and feeling the way he yawns as he drops back against Vetinari’s chest. This business with Mr Meridian, he is curious to see how it unfolds. If Drumknott is right, and this machination of his will render the other young man more favourable where his senior is concerned, that would be advantageous. Drumknott prefers efficiency over anything else, and if this goes well, Vetinari will easily give way to him on other matters with the clerks – already, it is plain to Vetinari that Drumknott has memorised many of the details in the city that come to himself so easily, and that is…

 _Pleasing_.

He doesn’t need to test him, even, to know that Drumknott could recite most of the street addresses of any of the workers in  the Palace staff, or indeed in the employ of the Watch, the Post Office, the Royal Mint… He shows such attention to detail, is so very _scrupulous_ in his dealings, and what a pleasure that is.

He doesn’t think he’s ever had a personal clerk who so easily grasped the _core_ of that which the Patrician’s office, as Lord Vetinari makes it, uses to function. He’s had clerks who were nervous about the work, and sought solace in the order proffered by Vetinari’s methods; the clerk he had for the longest was of course in Wonse, who sought to take power for himself. Drumknott is neither anxious, in need of comforting, nor desperate for power.

He is merely here, motivated by duty, and yet willing to lean into the dubious to achieve that which needs to be achieved. Drumknott’s _ethics_ are a matter of curiosity, when he doesn’t seem to balk at the idea of causing death in one situation or another, when violence seems to _excite_ him…

There is potential here. He ought encourage it.

Nodding to himself, he focuses himself on the report from the clerks’ guild – a list of members who had dropped in the year previous, either as a result of not paying their fees, leaving the profession, or as a result of death or illness. There are only six or seven, and none of them had left as a result of malpractice or otherwise being ousted from the guild. The two that have died lack any relatives that might wish to avenge them somehow…

And somehow, Vetinari’s mind returns, continuously, to the fact of Mr Shaw.

He wouldn’t be capable of this sort of thing himself, Vetinari knows, as _anxious_ as he is: Frederick Shaw faints at the sight of blood, and Vetinari had delighted in the idea of him as head of his clerks, so _easy_ as he is to pressure by one lobby group or another. He feeds information here and there, primarily to merchants’ guilds, none of whom, Vetinari doesn’t think, would see fit to go on a spree, killing clerks…

And yet back to Shaw, Vetinari’s mind wanders.

The pieces don’t yet see fit to fall into place, and so he closes the list of clerks, setting the notebook neatly aside.

He wishes the Post Office were more efficient. He remembers the way that it used to be – not _excellent_ , by any means, but certainly, letters within the city had worked rather well, and the mail coaches had run regularly, if not at their most efficient. He merely wishes he had the right sort of mind to _set_ to the problem, to bring the Post Office back to its glory – or better yet, some alternative.

He wishes contact with Pseudopolis and with Überwald wasn’t quite so difficult. It isn’t that he feels some sort of pang to lack daily (or even weekly) contact with Lady Margolotta, nor with Aunt Bobbi, merely that there are so few people in the city that _challenge_ him, and that might be trusted.

He misses sparring with Margolotta, on the duelling ground or with a board between them, particularly when they go such long periods without seeing one another; he misses chess and Thud with Bobbi… There is the more sentimental desire for human company, he supposes distantly, but he had never been especially social, even as a child, and he does socialise, within Ankh-Morpork. He meets with Lady Sybil now and then, and they take tea; he goes to the occasional party; and he enjoys the council meetings…

Two of these, of course, are not like the other.

Sybil Vimes, née Ramkin, is one of the few genuinely trustworthy people in the city, and part of the reason for this, of course, is that she doesn’t care about politics; equally, this renders her an unsuitable opponent in more targeted conversation, and she doesn’t care for games of strategy.

And Drumknott…

 _I don’t suppose I’d see the point, my lord_.

_No, Drumknott, I don’t suppose you would._

He hadn’t realized, in the moment, Vetinari doesn’t think, that it was an invitation. Would he be any _good_? Perhaps, perhaps not – it is difficult to say. There are those who are adequate strategists in the scheme of things, but who cannot play so much as a move in chess without scuppering their every move; there are others who are excellent on the board, and yet cannot conduct themselves in the real sphere.

But he _enjoys_ those little pastimes.

Much like their walks in the afternoon, he finds that the break from working allows his mind a moment to be distracted, to return with all the more aplomb with the difficulties at hand; he likes puzzles for that sort of thing, as well, but the humble _jigsaw_ affords him no inspiration, and it is so rare that a puzzle box will give him satisfaction.

Sparring would be nice, had he a partner skilled enough, and trustworthy…

Perhaps he will take Drumknott down tomorrow night. Even just to test his ability, his instinct…

He taps a quick message to the Dark Clerks to send onto the general staff for tomorrow evening:

**PREP FENCING ROOM. TOMORROW EVENING TO LATE.**

In the meantime…

“Walkies,” he says quietly, and Wuffles jumps down from his lap, rushing to the bedroom door and dancing on his little feet, his paws clattering against the plain boards of the floor. They walk down the stairs in the darkness, and out into the Palace courtyard, which is ill-lit at this time of the evening, but not so much so that one cannot make their way about.

“My lord?” asks a figure by the fountain.

“Mr Lockheed, good evening,” Vetinari says, and Lockheed steps forward, taking his cigarette from his mouth and looking at him concernedly.

“Are you well?”

“Quite well,” Vetinari says. “Merely an overactive mind, Mr Lockheed, as is so oft the way. How was your outing?”

“Oh, very well,” Lockheed says, and he proffers his cigarette case to Vetinari, who gives a small shake of his head before the case is slipped back into an inner pocket. Vetinari had never enjoyed cigarettes all that much, nor cigars – the scents are too revealing, strong as they are, and the taste had never appealed to him enough to render their nicotine a suitable draw. Hookahs, _those_ , he more sees the appeal in, but even then… “Mr Drumknott seemed to have an excellent time looking at the exhibit, and the lads had an excellent time observing him.”

“You missed, perhaps, the natural draw of the subject?” Vetinari asks, and Lockheed smiles, ruefully.

“Not to my tastes, I’m afraid, sir,” Lockheed murmurs. “But Drumknott, you know, he was _excited_. Smiled the whole time, and he talked well, in the pub, after. He’s not so much of a wallflower as I expected.”

“Good,” Vetinari murmurs, and as he walks forward, Lockheed falls naturally into step with him, keeping his gait slow that he not speed too much over Vetinari’s beleaguered walk. Lockheed doesn’t feed any of his information anywhere – only one or two of the Dark Clerks _do_ , and they’re kept careful track of. Lockheed, Vetinari is aware, is not a patriot, and he cares little about duty. He likes people, and he like puzzles – it is the sex appeal of espionage that most attracts him to the position, and this renders him simultaneously incorruptible, and more of a liability than anyone else in Vetinari’s service.

They walk in silence, Wuffles running only a little ahead in the darkness.

Frederick Shaw’s name ticks over in Vetinari’s mind like the pendulum on a clock.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

Drumknott comes back up from the Clerks’ Office at a little past six. Vetinari glances at him, taking in the pallor to his features and the sickly expression on his face. He had taken his afternoon walk with Wuffles alone as Drumknott had taken on the Clerks’ Office, and he had received note from one of the Dark Clerks to say that Mr Drumknott had dismissed Peter Salaom, one of the senior clerks in the department.

The clerk who had delivered the message, however, one Leo Pilkington, had gone on to say that he seemed to have frightened the clerks somewhat. The idea of Drumknott frightening the clerks had been an interesting one – amusing, but not entirely unexpected.

He has a certain sense of presence that cannot really be taught, if one isn’t naturally inclined toward it.

Carrot Ironfoundersson had dropped in to deliver his report on the death of Mr Meridian, and before he had left, he had hesitated, looking back at Vetinari.

“Lord Vetinari,” he had said quietly. “Might I say something, sir?”

“Please, Captain,” Vetinari had replied, gesturing idly with one hand. “The floor is yours.”

“Mr Drumknott, he’s… He’s a good person, I think, but today made him over some. He didn’t know which way to look, after this business with Mr Meridian. Someone should look after him.”

“Look after him?” Vetinari had repeated. “Captain, Mr Drumknott is my _clerk_. I am not his nursemaid.”

Irounfoundersson  Vetinari is certain, is more cunning than he seems. He _must_ be: simple, forthright and so very focused on that which he believes is right and good, he would be dangerous, were it not that he and Vetinari currently see eye-to-eye… And in the event that, on some future occasion, they do _not_ see eye-to-eye, Vetinari is aware of which of them will win the melée.

He had looked at Vetinari, and his head had tilted just slightly to the side, his innocent expression showing only an earnest desire to help, to think on the well-being of another citizen in Ankh-Morpork. He had smiled, just slightly, and then he had nodded his head in a polite bow, stepping out of the door.

Drumknott, having set down the paperwork he’d brought in, is making himself busy, straightening stacks of paperwork and putting them more neatly in parallel with one another. He doesn’t do this, Vetinari doesn’t think, as a pretence, that he might linger for longer in the Oblong Office: he does it because it comes naturally to him, and offers him, Vetinari suspects, some sense of calm.

Still, Shaw’s name flickers in his mind: Shaw, Shaw, Shaw. Meridian, Shaw’s second – how could Shaw possibly be involved, when he would never sell out one of his own clerks? Still, the puzzle compounds in his brain.

He had thought, in the aftermath of Meridian’s unfortunate death, to set the matter of taking Drumknott downstairs aside, but the young man is full to the brim with anxious energy, and he hadn’t eaten much. He needs the distraction, Vetinari supposes, as much as Vetinari himself, and there is a part of Vetinari that wants to see how he might _react_ , if Vetinari touches him.

To touch him, to guide his body, to draw him one way and then the other, to… _perfect_ him…

The idea appeals.

“Wuffles, come,” he says. “Drumknott, you too.”

He studies Drumknott’s expression in response, the uncertainty there, but he does not hesitate in his obedience, and as they make their way downstairs, Vetinari muses on when he last sparred with someone… It had been with Margolotta, hadn’t it, five or six years back, when she had last visited Ankh-Morpork? She does not like to spar with him, really, but she is so much faster than him, with the utility of her vampiric alacrity behind her…

He’s never really sparred with other men, outside of school. Even as a child, fencing with his father, there had been none of the speed and brutality of a real hand-to-hand event, and with other young men at the Assassins’ Guild, it had been to _easy_ , even hiding the depth of his own abilities. He had made neat sidesteps, made more use of his opponents follies than his own strengths, and it had been dull.

This will be _active_.

He is aware, as he unbuttons his robe, of Drumknott staring at him. His gaze is uninterrupted as Vetinari moves swiftly, unbuttoning the fastenings on the cassock and setting it neatly aside: he wears an armoured waistcoat, stiffened with steel threads, and although he has never yet had to _rely_ on it[1], it is nice to have. He pretends not to notice Drumknott’s dumb focus as he unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them up to the elbow – it is always best, he thinks, to get one’s shirt cuffs out of the way of any sharp blades[2].

“Take off your robe,” he instructs. There is… Hm. There is something appealing in the idea, yes, of having himself and Drumknott equally undressed. “Your blazer as well, if you would. Shirtsleeves will do.”

He likes the idea of being able to see Drumknott’s forearms. The young man’s hands are a little more scarred than one would expect, and he wonders if he has scars all over his body. His father had been a physical man, Vetinari has been informed, and likely struck him once or twice, at the very least, and that is with the altercations of his youth set aside…

“My lord?” Drumknott asks as Vetinari draws his skullcap away from his head, and Vetinari looks at him seriously, raising one eyebrow.

“You don’t appear to be moving, Drumknott.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t believe I asked you to understand: I asked you to remove your robe and your suit blazer.” And what _obedience_. He scarcely seems cognizant of what he does as he reaches up and draws off his robe, and Vetinari watches as he removes the blazer, too. The both of them box in his thin body, make him look even smaller than he is – he’s not nearly as thin as Vetinari is, with softness at his belly, and seeing him in his shirtsleeves is…

He remains _compact_ , even whilst not being _thin_ , and there’s something engaging about that. Drumknott is one of those young men that seems younger because of his _size_ , but there is something in his face, too, with how large his eyes are, and the latter is only emphasised by the glasses he wears…

There’s an appeal here.

He watches Drumknott as he steps toward the table, sees his expression, which is cultivatedly lacking in emotion. “That’s a lot of knives,” he says.

“Yes,” Vetinari agrees, stepping closer, and watching as Wuffles jumps up onto the chair, curling back against his robe.

“Are you going to kill me, my lord?” Drumknott asks. There is a certain wryness in his voice, but there, too, is a breathless lilt, and Vetinari comes closer still, that the two of them stand facing one another.

“I wasn’t planning to, no,” Vetinari says, and he watches the way Drumknott exhales, the way he relaxes just marginally.

“Very well,” he whispers, and when Vetinari reaches for one of his wrists, beginning to unbutton the shirt cuff, he can feel Drumknott stiff under his arms, hear the young man _gasp_. There is a part of Vetinari, a part of him that sounds discomfortingly like Samuel Vimes, that insists he mustn’t do this, that he is taking advantage of a man too young, and too inexperienced to know better.

Of course, Vetinari _isn’t_ Vimes. His morality is not so couched in factors of black and white, of good and bad. There are so few things that Vetinari _wants_ , and fewer still are the number of things he takes, and he wants, for just a moment, to be selfish. It’s a childish desire, he supposes, when he has greater duties to consider, when he has more things to do…

But he _wants_. He wants to dig into the puzzle that is the young man before him, wants to spread him out and rearrange him as one rearranges the aspects of a cipher, that one might understand how it works. He wants to take hold of this curious thread of sexuality and _twist_ it, see how far it bends beneath a disinterested hand.

And Drumknott needs refining. It is not as if there won’t be other benefits here, not as if he won’t be _using_ this, letting this little infatuation fuel the ascension to a greater knowledge, a greater control, a better skill.

“You don’t drink, Drumknott,” Vetinari says softly. Where _does_ he find his moments of relaxation? Merely in the organisation of stationery, in the filing of one idea and the next? Is that all?

“No, my lord.”

“You don’t take much exercise, either.” He doesn’t exercise in the mornings, doesn’t run, doesn’t do any sort of calisthenics… Perhaps he ought encourage the Dark Clerks to take Drumknott down to their gymnasium, encourage them to put him to work… Drumknott, Vetinari muses with a small amount of amusement, would _hate_ that.

“I— No, my lord, I don’t. I never liked sports.” He can feel the cool of Drumknott’s hand and his wrist underneath his own. He’s seen people hold hands before, husbands and wives, young people with their lovers, has never understood the appeal, and Drumknott’s hands lend no clue to the mystery: they are small, and _cold_ , although they are dry, although his palms don’t seem to sweat…

“No,” he agrees. “You don’t smoke.”

“No, my lord, never.” So fastidious!

“Do you have _any_ vices, Drumknott?” Vetinari asks in a very soft voice. He leans in a little to ask the question, feels himself amused at the way Drumknott shudders.

“My temper, my lord,” he answers. It isn’t the answer Vetinari had expected, had expected the young man to mention his infatuation, and the surprise makes Vetinari smile. This temper… He has seen only the ghost of it thus far, but the idea of drawing it out is a curious one – seeing Drumknott lose his sense of composure, to yell, to shout… Undignified, yes, but how revealing it would be.

This will be revealing, too.

“Pick a weapon,” he says, and he takes a step away. He doesn’t miss the way that Drumknott leans forward slightly, as if to follow him. Is there anyone else in the city, Vetinari wonders, who would lean _after_ more of his physicality, instead of away?[3]

“I don’t know how to use any of these, my lord,” Drumknott says.

“That’s alright,” Vetinari replies, and he wonders, later on, at the value to be found in laying a table out with stationery instead of weapons. Perhaps Drumknott would see this as a blasphemy, but Vetinari doesn’t think so – Drumknott has a creative mind, and Vetinari should like to see it put to use in that fashion. “Pick whatever seems natural.”

Vetinari had expected him to take a long time, looking over the different knives and short clubs on the table, umming and aahing over what to select, but he doesn’t. After only a moment’s hesitation, Drumknott’s finger catches on a short dagger that rests on the table’s surface, picking it up and holding it with his index finger against the crossguard, and Vetinari reaches out, pushing his finger in line with the others on the grip.

He stands just behind Drumknott, their shoulders against one another, and he can smell the product Drumknott uses to keep his hair neatly coiffed, can smell ink and the papery scent of the file room… He’s taller than Drumknott, tall enough that standing behind him, like this, his chin is a little higher than Drumknott’s shoulder – he has to lean _down_ to murmur in Drumknott’s ear.

The man is even shorter than _Vimes,_ and just as satisfying to provoke.

As he points out the elements of the crossguard on the dagger Drumknott is holding, and the bolster on another to compare, he is aware that he cannot remember learning this himself. There are some things he recalls learning for the first time – he recalls his father sitting him down to learn to play chess, and Aunt Bobbi sitting him down immediately afterwards, to teach him “properly”; he recalls the first time he was taught to snap a neck, when they found an injured pheasant, how it was the kinder thing to do; he recalls learning to first do up his cravat, for his father’s funeral.

Other things, it seems as if he has always known them, as if those pieces of knowledge, those skills, have always been a part of him.

Curious, that the evening should render him so pensive, make him think so much about old times…

Leaning forward, he settles his hand a little above Drumknott’s hip: Drumknott’s side is warm where his hands are eternally cold, and Vetinari allows his fingers to tighten their grip just slightly, allows himself to feel Drumknott’s waist. He leans in, close enough that his lips almost brush Drumknott’s air, and he does not question the easy satisfaction at the way Drumknott’s breathing shifts, the way he leans _back_ …

“I want you to try to cut me,” he whispers.

“Bed pardon, my lord?” Drumknott asks, horror plain in his voice, and Vetinari has to stop himself from laughing as he steps back toward the mats. His attempts at flustering Drumknott are forgotten in the wake of a much higher pleasure: a real _spar_ , one man’s mind to the other.

And it’s—

It is _exciting_ , in its way. It’s been so long since he stood on the mats with someone without fully intending to kill them, and Drumknott’s instincts are so much better than he had thought. With the knife in his hand, Vetinari had expected Drumknott to worry about hurting his master by accident…

But Drumknott trusts him.

He trusts, at his core, that Vetinari won’t let him score a point, and Vetinari _won’t_ , but he thinks, with practice, that Drumknott _could_. His reflexes are fast, his instincts are good, and he’s a _delight_. He moves stiffly, holds himself with a strange squareness, but he can work that out, and in the meantime, Vetinari is merely _pleased_.

“A strong effort,” he says approvingly, when they are stood chest-to-chest, close enough that he can feel Drumknott’s thundering heartbeat, “for a novice.” He really _ought_ take more exercise, if this has gotten him so worked up, his cheeks burningly red.

“This is going to kill me,” Drumknott punches out, breathing heavily, and Vetinari leans back slightly, frowning somewhat.

“I told you, Drumknott,” he says mildly. “I’m not going to cut you.”

“I didn’t mean the _knives,”_ Drumknott replies, all but gasping out the words, and Vetinari feels himself, for just a moment, stun. He’s _aroused_. Not merely excited from the exercise, but _aroused_ – titillated, even just because Vetinari is this close to him, playing with him. How far, Vetinari wonders, might be push this? He doesn’t care for the sexual act, but he likes to spar, and the idea of Drumknott so _enthralled_ is— curious. He wants to experiment with this train of attraction, and see where it might lead.

“Come,” he says, gesturing for Drumknott to take up the dagger Vetinari had flipped to the floor. “I’ll show you some stances.”

It’s captivating, to see Drumknott’s response as they practice with one another. Every time Vetinari adjusts the way he positions his body, his feet or his hips or his arms, Drumknott all but _vibrates_ , as if he thinks he may explode or shatter quite to pieces over the way that Vetinari is touching him.

Whenever the knife comes too close to Drumknott’s skin, Drumknott looks as if he may well _moan_. It’s just so easy to elicit a response, so easy to make Drumknott jolt and shiver under his hands.

“No, you aren’t firmly planted enough,” Vetinari murmurs finally, and he touches the inside of Drumknott’s knee to encourage him to widen his stance slightly, dropping to a crouch just in front of him. Drumknott lets out a sharp, cut-off noise that comes from low in his throat, and Vetinari pauses, his fingers lingering against Drumknott’s lower thigh. Leaning back on his heels, he arches a questioning eyebrow. “Are you quite _alright_ , Drumknott?”

He’s never seen the young man’s face so brightly flushed.

“I am… well,” he says, in a low voice. “Can we get back to the sparring, please, my lord?”

“Impatient, are you?”

“I learn better, with practical instruction.”

“So I see.”

Drumknott swallows, and he glances away for a moment before he looks back to Vetinari, and Vetinari can see how much it bothers him, to be looking _down_ at the Patrician, to see Vetinari crouched in front of him. He’s so concerned with class, with what is _proper_ and what is _appropriate_ …

Vetinari rises to his feet, and he holds his own blade loosely in one hand.

“Very well,” he says. “Let us try again: cut me, Drumknott, if you can.”

It is not like teaching someone to dance. It will be, later on, when Vetinari goes through the movements of teaching Drumknott the right footwork, how to match one’s opponents stances that one not be set off balance, but for now, it is different – Drumknott comes at him, lunges or shifts or stabs or parries, and Vetinari neatly sidesteps each and every move. Undeterred, Drumknott continues, and he subtly adjusts the way he holds himself, the way he responds. When Vetinari keeps catching him on his upswing, he brings his arms in closer to his chest; when Vetinari trips him twice, he plants his legs farther apart to strengthen his balance; when Vetinari leans over him, he tries to hook his foot over the back of Vetinari’s ankle to bring him down to the floor.

Drumknott is breathing heavily, but he has better stamina than Vetinari would have expected, and he keeps his grip on his dagger even when Vetinari twists his wrist one way and the other.

He steps close, and when Vetinari lunges, Drumknott’s hand grips tight at his cravat, _pulling_ , even as he shifts with his own dagger, but Vetinari moves too quickly for him, and he kicks Drumknott’s foot out from beneath him, sending him sailing backwards.

Drumknott gasps as Vetinari comes down after him, his hands whipping to throw the blade from Drumknott’s hand and pin the other man’s wrists underneath his own tight grip, straddling Drumknott’s thigh and keeping him down with his weight.

Drumknott draws in a reedy breath. “I concede, sir,” he says softly, and Vetinari grins, dropping his own blade slightly aside and shifting his knee forward. Drumknott, still inhaling and exhaling heavily, tries to squirm back, but Vetinari tightens his grasp, and when his knee slides up against Drumknott’s crotch—

The terror on Drumknott’s face is palpable.

“My lord?” he asks, in a strangled voice.

He’s stiff against Vetinari’s thigh, and as he shifts his position slightly, he feels Drumknott _twitch_ , feels his knees spread a little further apart, and Vetinari feels his lip twitch slightly as he draws the dagger up, using the tip of the blade to comb an errant curl away from Drumknott’s face. Drumknott is shivering under him, and funnily enough, his gaze doesn’t follow the movement of the knife, but Vetinari’s face, concentrating up on him.

“Is this the sort of thing you’d envisioned?” Vetinari asks softly.

“You’re playing with me,” Drumknott gasps out, and Vetinari chuckles, letting his head tilt slightly to the side.

“Yes,” he says simply. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I…” Drumknott trails off, and then he bites at his lip. It’s curious, the way the flesh shifts as he catches it under his teeth, his lip shifting and catching the lamp glow in a different way, the angles altering. “I merely want what you want, my lord.”

“A dangerous thing,” Vetinari says, “to devote yourself to someone else’s desires.”

“Danger has never much deterred me, my lord.”

“So I see.”

Vetinari moves his knee again, feels Drumknott’s hips judder under the shift, feels him drag at his wrists. He leans in closer, so that his chest blankets Drumknott’s smaller one, so that their mouths almost touch, their noses brushing against one another, and he hears the soft noise Drumknott makes in the back of his throat.

“My lord—”

“Hm?”

“What— What do you want?” _There_ is a question laden with implication, full to the brim with fervour. He can hear the _desire_ in Drumknott’s voice, once that he’s heard vaguely in some people’s voices before, although it’s never felt quite so personal. _Let me please you: I want to please you_. Like as not, Drumknott’s mind is full to the brim with ideas of taking to his knees before his master, or perhaps being permitted to put his hand in Vetinari’s breeches, even to bend over something…

None of that really appeals. But the idea of watching _Drumknott_ , that certainly—

“I want,” Lord Vetinari murmurs, keeping his grip tight on Drumknott’s wrists, “to watch you.”

“Watch me?” Drumknott repeats.

“I’m not going to release you until I’m satisfied.” Drumknott’s breath hitches in his throat, and Vetinari looks at him, at his wide eyes, his parted lips, his _cheeks_ , so astoundingly red. He feels Drumknott’s hips shift – the position is awkward, pinned on his back with Vetinari looming over him, but he feels Drumknott roll his hips against his thigh, and the stuttered moan that ekes its way past Drumknott’s lips is _perfect_.

Drumknott thrusts his hips as best he can, given the position, and Vetinari can feel him through the fabrics of their trousers – it must be messy, but he can’t feel the _mess_ , the wetness, can only feel Drumknott’s hard prick as he tries to grind himself harder, faster.

It doesn’t take all that long.

He can feel the excitement coil in the younger man’s body, feel the tension build in the twitching form beneath him, and Drumknott’s moans get louder, more difficult to muffle, and Vetinari watches the way his expression screws up as he reaches his zenith, fascinated at the choked noises, the _gasps_ —

And Drumknott’s hips stutter, seemingly without his control.

He drops back all but limp on the cold ground, then, and Vetinari draws his hand slowly back from Drumknott’s wrists. He watches as Drumknott trembles, watches his breathing even out once more, watches the relaxation seep through his bones as if he’s been steeped in hot tea… What a delightful sight it is.

And _he’s_ wrought this particular response. _He’s_ engendered this.

Drumknott’s eyes, which had closed tightly, open, and he looks up at Vetinari with something like awe on his face. “Satisfied?” he asks, finally, in a whisper.

Vetinari smiles, and he takes up Drumknott’s left hand, one thumb rubbing gently over the back of his cool palm to warm it up. When Drumknott smiles, he strikes with the dagger: just a little slash that cuts at the heel of the palm, and Drumknott cries out in pain. “Yes,” he answers, and he stands to his feet. “Don’t concede to me again, Drumknott, unless you are _asking_ to be cut.”

Drumknott is staring at his own palm, at the blood which wells at the little wound, scarcely an inch long.

And he moves so fast, his dagger catching again to his own hand, but when he reaches out to cut, to catch the side of Vetinari’s ankle, he is already moving across the room, and is picking up his robe to put it back on.

“Good instinct,” he says approvingly, when he hears Drumknott sigh.

He watches as Drumknott slowly stands to his feet, walking tenderly ( _the mess!)_ to take up his blazer once more. He can feel Drumknott looking at him, can feel his stare, feel his _eagerness_. “Thank you, my lord,” he murmurs.

“What for?” Vetinari asks, and Drumknott stops, his lips parting, closing together.

“I feel,” Drumknott says slowly, his eyes shifting as he thinks, “I’ve learned— That I’ve learned a lot, in the past hour or so. Thank you. For that.” Vetinari smirks, and he reaches out, correcting Drumknott’s cravat and feeling the way the younger man leans into the touch.

“Very good, Drumknott,” he murmurs.

Frederick Shaw…

It’s the information he feeds out, Vetinari realises. Shaw feeds all sorts of information to the little merchants’ cabal, each of the time travelling via separate clerks, or getting hold of clerks in other parts of the city… Were he to look back over Shaw’s work, in the past few weeks, he’d see all of the other clerks, see their names attached, in one way or another, to the associated grapevine.

Satisfaction settles low in his belly, warm and pleasant, and he reaches out, pat2ting Drumknott’s cheek and feeling the clerk shiver.

“You ought to bed,” Vetinari advises. “And bathe.”

“I’d like to do that again, my lord,” Drumknott says, and Vetinari raises his eyebrows.

“Now, Drumknott? Your stamina astounds.”

“No,” Drumknott says, unperturbed by the teasing. “But— But I should like to. Again. Please.”

 _Please_.

Vetinari reaches out, almost without thinking, and he lets his fingers play over the side of Drumknott’s jaw, tilting his head up a little higher, that Vetinari can properly look at his face. He looks full to the _brim_ with energy, with aplomb – so relaxed, compared to how he’d been before. So charming.

“Very well,” Vetinari murmurs. This is… _personal_. Different, but personal. And yet… And yet. Drumknott smiles, and the expression is almost _shy_. “Very well.”

They ascend the stairs together, and Vetinari lets Drumknott retire to his quarters to seek out warm water. Vetinari, he returns to his own quarters, and he begins to make notes on this business with Shaw’s contacts, and how best to work out which of them is the problem.

There’s nothing quite like a distraction to make the puzzle pieces fall into place.

 

[1] Vetinari likes to play with his assassins, but almost none of them survive to coming within a few feet of him, let alone close enough to necessitate the vest he wears.

[2] And when sparring with Lady Margolotta, there is an added benefit in being able to distract her with the stark blue veins that show on Vetinari’s hands and wrists through thin, pale skin.

[3] Vetinari naturally exempted from this idle thought the figure of Cosmo Lavish, who routinely tried _desperately_ to put himself in Vetinari’s personal space, and who Vetinari had become rather adept at sidestepping.


	12. Coincidence

Drumknott lies down in his bed, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness, his candle extinguished. His glasses, his diary, his keys, a few pencils, each rest on the side table directly beside him: these items do not leave his person in the course of a day, and he likes to keep them close at hand.

He had made do with cold water to wash himself off, scrubbing away the slick stickiness clinging to his body, not just about his loins but equally on the rest of his body, cleaning away the sweat that had built up in the hour. His body… _aches_. His arms are sore from being twisted one way and then the other; his back hurts from being bent around a few times; there are bruises on his hips and his shoulders… And then, the new cut on his palm. It is already scabbed over, the clean split to the skin neatly healing, and Drumknott reaches over to touch it with his other thumb, tracing the little straight line and feeling the roughness of the scratch in contrast with the rest of his hand.

He’d been so humiliated, so _frightened_ , at the way Lord Vetinari had pinned him to the ground, looking down at him the way a cat examines the mouse it has trapped beneath its paws, and he had thought it some cruelty, at first, merely wanting to make a joke at the expense of Drumknott’s desperately ignored passion, but the way he had _looked_ at Drumknott’s face…

 _“What— What do you want?”_ And he had wanted to understand. All he had wanted was to understand, to _comprehend_ , to be permitted that small glimpse into the serpentine cogitations of Havelock Vetinari’s mind, had wanted to do what Vetinari _wanted_ of him. And to see Vetinari’s face in that moment had been overwhelming, to see his face that changed _not at all_ , and yet—

And yet in his eyes, Drumknott had perceived the slight change, the glint of inner revelation, perhaps, or decision, and he had been breathless at the idea of seeing so subtle a display of his lordship’s emotion, at being allowed close enough to do so. Trapped prone, blood rushing further downwards with every moment, his prick hard in his trousers and tight against Vetinari’s warm thigh—

 _“I want to watch you,”_ Vetinari had murmured.

 _“Watch me?”_ In that moment, his understanding suspended, Lord Vetinari’s fingers tight about his wrists, Lord Vetinari’s _chest_ against his own, their noses brushing against one another, so close that Lord Vetinari could have kissed him[1]… And Vetinari’s lips had _shifted_ , one corner allowing for the ghost of a smirk.

“ _I’m not going to release you,”_ he had said, “ _until I’m satisfied_.”

The fact of working in the Patrician’s Palace, and particularly alongside the Patrician himself, is that some things are meant to be communicated entirely non-verbally. Meanings are implicit, put forth with tacit understandings and noiseless implications; ciphers and double entendres are the natural territory of the everyday; so much might be communicated with naught more than a fleeting look.

And he had read in Lord Vetinari’s _face_ , in his icy-cold eyes, in the predatory quirk of his lip, precisely what he _meant_ , and his stomach had lurched, his skin had burned, and he had _known_ , in a flash of understanding, exactly what Vetinari was saying to him, exactly what he was asking, and yet he had known it couldn’t _possibly_ be true, that the Patrician would never…

Drumknott had, still certain he must be wrong, still certain his flash of understanding must be incorrect, must have been lost in translation, carefully rolled his hips against Vetinari’s thigh, and Vetinari’s expression had shown nothing but satisfied expectation.

 _Gods_.

And it had felt—

It had felt _strange_ , embarrassing, soul-chilling, to grind himself against Lord Vetinari’s _thigh_ , to feel the desperate tremors of hot, spinetingling sensation that made him gasp and do his best not to moan openly, and the entire time, the entire _time_ , Vetinari had watched him, his icy scrutiny as much a weight on Drumknott as Vetinari’s body.

And… why?

This is the great question to which Drumknott’s mind had proffered no ready solution. There are things he believes he _does_ understand – cutting his palm, for example, had been a lesson in two things at once. Concession, in the event Drumknott is _truly_ attacked, will almost certainly confirm his inhumation, but more than that, it had been an assurance that Vetinari _would_ hurt him, if Drumknott asked—

And oh, how the thought revolves in his mind, turning over and over again in its orbit of his other trains of thought, as the sun revolves around the Disc. His skin flushes, tight and prickling where it is drawn over his body, at the very idea of Vetinari looming over him, a dagger to hand.

Rolling over, Drumknott presses his face tightly to his pillow, and does his best to ignore the flagrant titillation that overwhelms his senses, rendering his thoughts repeatedly to return to prurient observations, of the tightness of Lord Vetinari’s trousers over muscular thighs, of the neat shape of his hips and shoulders, of his _hands_ …

He hasn’t been so engulfed by amative thoughts like these since he was a _boy_ : his control has been carefully perfected, neatly controlling his libido as it might control his temper, his petty weaknesses, and oh, how easily his control slips, now that he is alone in his warm bed, with thoughts of the Patrician.

He sleeps uneasily, when his traitorous mind sees finally fit to permit him rest.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

“Do you believe in angels, Mr Gorton?” Lord Vetinari asks.

Behind him, settled at the little desk in the corner of the Oblong Office, apart from Lord Vetinari’s own, against which he is leaning, Drumknott laboriously translates a complicated cipher from the Dark Clerks. Lord Vetinari does not need to actually use a pen to read these ciphers, can do all the calculation within his own mind, but Drumknott is given two or three of them a day, that he might quicken in his own solving of them. They’re difficult, not just because of the code itself, but because of the time that must be taken in transposing characters, and Drumknott is ordinarily permitted only a half hour to translate every cipher he is given.

It is not dissimilar to being given an examination every day, but examinations had never given him much anxiety at school, and these ones are not in themselves a source of trepidation or foreboding – he is improving, and he rather likes that Vetinari will insist upon his own invigilation of these little tests, meaning that Drumknott sits within his line of sight to complete them.

He has been performing these little tests of his ability for a few weeks now, and he has completed one of the ciphers given to him already today; this is the second, but the third, of which he had taken a cursory glance, evades him entirely, and he is certain he will have to take it up without it being completed.

Today, of course, there is an added benefit to Drumknott’s presence in the room. His neat notes upon the paper are adding to Mr Gorton’s anxieties, and the man is trembling where he stands before the Patrician, his hat clutched tightly in his hands. He is a stout man of average height, with a slight paunch to his belly, and on the top of his head, his mousy-brown hair is thinning considerably.

“A— Angels, my lord?” Gorton asks.

“I know a curious fact about angels, Mr Gorton,” Vetinari says, in a pleasant voice that would strike terror into any man in Ankh-Morpork. “In fact, I know _two_. Would you like for me to tell you?”

“Er— Alright,” Gorton says. Sweat is dripping down his rounded, cherubic cheeks and into the lapels of his tweed coat.

“ _Very rarely_ , Mr Gorton,” Vetinari says, “an angel might appear when a man is in the depths of despair, when his life is so hopeless as to be almost entirely at an end, and that angel might offer him… _Salvation_. Or, at the very least, the opportunity to reach for such. I should like for you to think of _me_ , in this moment, Mr Gorton, as an angel.”

Drumknott finishes his second cipher with a satisfied flourish of his pen, neatly blotting the paper and setting it aside, that he might begin on his third. Mr Gorton releases a strangled moan, twisting his hat irreparably in his delicate hands. He has very delicate hands, for how big and rounded the rest of his body is: they look as if they have been made of china, immaculately made, and with perfectly manicured fingernails.

“Sal… Salvation,” Gorton repeats. “I… Um, Lord Vetinari—”

“Would you like to know a second interesting fact about angels, Mr Gorton?” Vetinari asks.

“Guh?” Gorton asks: this seems to be the limit of his panicked eloquence.

“They only appear _once_.”

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

“A shame about Mr Gorton, my lord,” Drumknott says, handing over the ciphers.

“Indeed,” Vetinari says, with a slight gesture of his spare hand. His gaze flits over the first and second code, his expression unchanging as he gives a slight nod of his head, meaning that Drumknott has completed them quite perfectly, but the third…

Vetinari frowns as he looks at the third cipher very critically, and Drumknott feels shame puddle in the base of his stomach. His body aches from last night’s exertion, but somehow, it is much, much worse, much more exactingly painful, to see Vetinari’s brow _furrow_ , to see him stare down at the cipher, upon which, Drumknott is certain, he has made no progress at all.

“Drumknott,” Vetinari says, “I rather thought this the easiest of the three.”

“My apologies, my lord,” Drumknott says quietly. “I found myself rather at a loss – I tried a few different alphabets, numbers, even co-ordinates to measure against it, but—”

“ _Drumknott_ ,” Vetinari says, in a mildly chiding tone. “It’s a good deal simpler than that.” Handing it back, Vetinari looks at him with—

He looks _disappointed_ , and Drumknott sets his jaw, clenching his teeth as he does his best to ignore the burning hot mortification that rips through him, not giving into the instinct to let out some undignified noise of disappointment at having Vetinari _look_ at him like that.

“A staff, Drumknott?” Vetinari asks, expectantly.

Drumknott’s face, he is aware, must look supremely blank. A _staff_? A wizard’s staff? He doesn’t mean the song, Drumknott is certain, and only some staves are separated into sections, but—

“Here,” Vetinari says, setting the paper down on his desk, and Drumknott watches as he dips his quill in the ink. His hands move artfully on the paper, creating five straight lines, and then he circles a few of the letters on the page, making corresponding dots on the lines of paper.

Drumknott stares down at it as Vetinari somehow draws from these dots more letters, and he feels much the same way he does when he watches the wizards at work, creating something from virtually nothing.

“You see?” Vetinari asks, and Drumknott glances at him. Vetinari’s furrowed brow alters, softening slightly, and his eyebrows raise. It means a lot, Drumknott thinks, that Vetinari’s face should be quite so expressive, when they are alone together – he doesn’t wear his emotions quite so plainly with most people, and it is pleasing, that he should be allowed the opportunity, the _privilege_ , of seeing what Vetinari is feeling in the moment, even in a moment like this, where Drumknott wishes the floor would swallow him. “Drumknott, you do _play_ piano, don’t you?”

“Yes, my lord,” Drumknott says, rather caught off-guard by this question.

“You have played since you were a boy?”

“Yes, my lord, there’s a piano in the Horse and Coaches[2], on Whistler Street, and my mother taught me.”

“You play a variety of music?”

“I think so, sir.”

“You play the piano, even, I am told, for the haunted files in Room XB in the Unseen University, when they become restless every March?”

“By arrangement with Professor Hoo, my lord. They like waltzes best.[3]”

“But you don’t read music?” Vetinari asks. The penny drops, as if from a quite considerable height, and feels as if it has driven its way right into Drumknott’s skull.

“ _Oh_ ,” Drumknott says, and he leans back over the desk, staring at the “staff”, at the lines and incomprehensible dots. He feels, all of a sudden, very, very stupid. He had known, of course, that music is written down – he had observed as a young man, even, the sheafs of paper ever carried about by members of the choir at school[4], but he’s never _seen_ the pages, never actually _looked_ at them. “I— My apologies, my lord, I never—”

“Oh, do _hush_ , Drumknott. The fault is mine,” Vetinari says, and Drumknott turns to peer at him, rather taken aback. The idea of Lord Vetinari _erring_ is… difficult to digest, but Vetinari, far from appearing at all displeased, is _smiling_. “Foolish of me, that such a detail ought have slipped my mind – this is why, Drumknott, the keen edge of one’s mind must ever be kept to the whetstone.”

“Nonetheless, my lord, my ignorance humbles me,” Drumknott murmurs, dispelling the inner urge to fidget, and he clenches his hand, dragging his fingers over the cut on the heel of his palm, and the sensation grounds him.

“You play by ear?”

“Yes, my lord,” Drumknott says softly. “But I… I am sorry, sir. I should take on the study of written music with alacrity.”

“It might behove you, Drumknott, for the sake of cryptography alone.”

“Yes, my lord. I do apologise, sir, for my… inexperience in the matter.”

“No apologies are necessary,” Vetinari says, softly. “Fortunately, Drumknott, even the greatest inexperience is quite easily remedied.”

Drumknott is very still, and he looks up at Lord Vetinari’s expression. His eyebrows are raised in the slightest appearance of the sardonic, his lips loosely pursed, and his gaze meets easily with Drumknott’s own. He is preternaturally aware, in this moment, of the pains in his body, of the way his bruises lightly throb beneath his clothes, of the distant ache in his shoulders, and how much they might coincide with Vetinari’s good mood.

The innuendo rests in the air between them, as a kite on a draught of warm air.

“Yes, my lord,” Drumknott says finally, with a small inclination of his head. “Will that be all?”

Vetinari smiles.

“Yes, Drumknott,” he says, and Drumknott turns neatly upon his heel, stepping into the corridor to return to his office.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

“Mr Drumknott, we are going for a walk,” Vetinari says, and Drumknott glances up. Lord Vetinari stands in the doorway, Wuffles at his heels. For their walks in the gardens, the dog usually runs freely, but now his collar has a black cord attached to it, the end of which is loosely held in Vetinari’s gloved hand. The Patrician is already wearing his coat, and is leaning on his cane.

Drumknott moves swiftly to his feet to draw on his own coat, and to take up his gloves. He had heard the steps come directly to the Oblong Office from one of the Dark Clerks, and had heard the steps go away… Evidently, it is an object of some urgency. “I ought remind you, my lord, of your meeting with Mr Prince at four o’clock.”

“I haven’t forgotten, Drumknott: we won’t be long.”

“Very well, my lord,” Drumknott says, and he takes up a notebook and a few spare pencils[5], and he follows closely behind Lord Vetinari as they make their way downstairs, and out across the courtyard, where they leave via the Palace Gate. His legs complain some about the leisurely walk, but he neatly ignores the pain, falling into step with the Patrician.

“I wondered, my lord,” Drumknott asks as they round the corner and begin to approach Pseudopolis Yard. The Dark Clerk had brought news from the Watchmen, then… “Might I be permitted an afternoon’s reprieve sometime this week?” He wants to pick up some books on the subject of music, that he might learn to read it, and he is aware there must be a great many books on the subject within the Library.

“No,” Vetinari says.

Drumknott blinks. The refusal surprises him, and he glances at Lord Vetinari’s face, but no further explanation is given. There is no light assertion that he ought make such requests in writing, nor that he might try another week, where engagements are not so pressing – there is merely the curt refusal, and then the silence as Lord Vetinari observes the bustle on the streets with vague interest.

He could _ask_ for further explanation, but he rather thinks that would be beyond his place.

“Very well, sir,” he says, and he lets the matter drop.

When they make their way into the watch-house, Lord Vetinari leads Drumknott directly up the stairs, and they enter the upstairs area that Drumknott believes takes the appellation of the _bull-pen_ : once a wide drawing room, many partitions have been set up at various desks, and members of the watch are hard at work. Many more are talking idly with one another over cups of tea or coffee, each of the mugs with some manner of humorous inscription upon their ceramic.

They stand, for just a moment, in the doorway, and when Wuffles sneezes[6], a few of the workers look their way. The silence spreads across the room in the way a pebble makes ripples across a whole pond, expanding outward slowly and surely, and Drumknott waits patiently as the last of the detectives look in their direction.

An extremely elderly man in ill-fitting armour coughs, and Drumknott and Vetinari watch in polite interest as he stumbles across the room, and knocks with an atavistic fist upon the door marked **COMMANDER** **VIMES**.

The door opens, baring the man in question to view, and Vimes’ gaze slowly turns to land on Vetinari.

He scowls.

“Corporal Kindling,” he says irritably, to the old man. _Jonathan Kindling, 97, 32 Eight Deadly Sins, twice widowed, two sisters, both deceased._ Drumknott’s mind supplies these details in one quick movement, and he can envision the new Corporal’s file before him – he had joined the Watch for something to do, apparently. His arrest record is surprisingly sparkling – even the most hardened criminals are reluctant to violently resist arrest when it is performed by a doddering ancient. “Would you show the Patrician to my office, please?”

“Er—”

Corporal Kindling makes a few stunted, arthritic steps across the room, moving very slowly with the gazes of every officer landing on him.

“Your— Your lordship, sir,” he says.

“Hello, Corporal Kindling,” Vetinari says conversationally. “I’m here to see Watch Commander Vimes.”

“Yes… Yes, Lord Vetinari, er, follow me…” Seemingly aware of the farcical nature of his situation, but unaware to adequately extricate himself, Kindling shuffles the several feet across the room, to Vimes’ door.

“My thanks, Corporal,” Vetinari says politely, and he steps inside, gesturing for Drumknott to follow. Thus entering, Drumknott takes up Wuffles at another small gesture of Vetinari’s chin, allowing the leash to loosely wrap around his wrist and allowing Wuffles to rest against his chest as he steps back beside the door.

Wuffles grumbles, shoving his hard skull up against Drumknott’s chin, and Drumknott smiles, scratching absently at the little dog’s wiry fur.

“I believe,” Vetinari says lightly as he draws his finger over a shelf to the side, examining the dust that clings to his finger, “you have remanded in custody the young gentleman who has been killing clerks?”

“We have a suspect in custody, yes,” Vimes says darkly. His hands are clenched at his sides, and he is looking irritably at Vetinari over the battleground of his desk, which is strewn with papers.

“I would like to meet him,” Vetinari says.

“Why, are you an admirer of his work?” Vimes retorts.

Drumknott cannot see Vetinari’s face, as his lordship’s back is to Drumknott, but he sees the way Vimes leans back slightly, his shoulders coming down, and he sees the Watch Commander shake his head. His gaze flits from Vetinari to Drumknott, who doesn’t allow his expression to shift.

“Right,” Vimes mutters, and he gestures for Vetinari to follow him. They make their way through the watch-house, downstairs toward the cells, and Drumknott finds himself interested in the art on the walls, some of which had been, he presumes, left over from when Pseudopolis Yard had belonged to the Ramkin Estate. There are… _alterations_ he would make, he believes, to the filing system, based on the bits and pieces he glimpses here and there, but…

Well.

That isn’t why they’re here.

Stepping down into the cells, Lord Vetinari walks with easy confidence to the edge of one of the bars. Curled up in the very corner of the cell, his long legs drawn up to his chest, is a young man. He can’t be older than twenty-five, but has a curious innocence to his features that suggests he must be a good deal younger. His hair is a pale blond, and he has ears that can only be described as unfortunately protuberant; his lips seem overly large as a result of extremely prominent front teeth; his eyes, which are a glittering green and the only claim to handsomeness that might be seen in Mr Joplin’s face[7], are fixed upon the stone floor of his cell.

“Ferdinand Joplin, I believe?” Vetinari asks, and the young man scrambles to his feet, stumbling as he comes toward the cell door. He is an extremely tall and lanky man, taller even, Drumknott suspects, than Captain Carrot, and as his hands wrap around the cell bars, Drumknott sees the glint of silver on one of his fingers. He wears a very dark blue suit and rubber boots, which are caked with what looks like dried mud, and what the smell clinging to Joplin’s suit would unhappily imply is _not_. Blood stains his shirt sleeves and the front of his shirt, and is caked beneath his fingernails.

“Lord Vetinari,” Joplin says, his lip quivering. Joplin, Drumknott is vaguely aware, is the son of Sir Fernleigh Joplin, who is one of the key members of the Merchants’ Guild Council. Sir Joplin is an international trader of some renown, and his name has passed over Drumknott’s desk a few times in one report or another – Mr Joplin is very firmly opposed to many of the levies and taxes imparted upon various imports and exports, and is subsequently quite… _vocal_ , where Lord Vetinari is concerned.

“Good afternoon, Mr Joplin,” Vetinari murmurs. “I take it you have been remanded here on the charge of several murders?”

For just a moment, Joplin looks…

Drumknott doesn’t know how he might describe it. Powerless, perhaps: he looks like a man about to hang, who has seen the shears lifted as if to cut his rope, and instead been used to cut an errant piece of his hangman’s hair. The flash of desperate hope is but a spark, extinguished almost as soon as it shows. His shoulders stiffen, and he raises his chin is a very poor interpretation of the stiff upper lip.

“And I don’t regret it, sir,” he says, unconvincingly. “I… They deserved it, all of them.”

“Indeed?” Vetinari asks, arching an eyebrow. “Please, allow me to introduce you to someone. Mr Drumknott?”

Drumknott takes a step forward, still holding Wuffles in his arms, and Joplin stares at him, uncomprehendingly. “Good afternoon, Mr Joplin,” Drumknott says politely. “Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand. I am Rufus Drumknott, Lord Vetinari’s personal clerk.”

As expected, there is a momentary expression of desperate incognizance on Joplin’s face, and then he lunges against the cell door, as if to grab at Drumknott through the bars. On Mr Joplin’s face, the rictus of rage is… impotent. Drumknott does not react at all to this, and Vetinari sighs.

“That will do, Mr Drumknott,” he says, and Drumknott moves back toward the door. Vimes, shaking his head, leads them out into an anteroom, out of Mr Joplin’s earshot.

“Don’t say it,” Vimes mutters.

“I wasn’t aware I was going to say anything, Commander.”

“He couldn’t kill a pigeon if it was already half-dead with instructions around its neck!” Vimes snaps, pacing the room. Vetinari says nothing, leaning slightly on his cane and watching him walk one way and then the other.

Drumknott is uncomfortably aware, when he observes Vetinari and Vimes together, of a certain patience on Vetinari’s part. He allows Vimes more slack than he does nearly anyone else in the city, and he watches Vimes with some care and some affection. At Hogswatch, he had even addressed a small, plain card to the Ramkin Estate[8]. It hardly befits a secretary to be jealous of any relationship his master might take on, regardless of what extracurricular activity said secretary and master might pursue, but—

The galling thing, Drumknott supposes, is that Vimes doesn’t even _notice_. He doesn’t _notice_ how much slack Vetinari permits him, where others would be skating on the thinnest ice imaginable with even a fraction of Vimes’ gruff attitude, doesn’t _notice_ when Vetinari’s expression shows humour, or even distant affection, at Vimes’ behaviour[9].

“But we _found_ him, where this clerk had had half his throat slit from behind, trying to _strangle_ the man instead. Henry Stubbs, who manages the recipe room in the Bakers’ Guild.”

“Will Mr Stubbs be alright?” Vetinari asks.

“Yes, they think so,” Vimes mutters. “But— We caught him, and he didn’t even _deny_ it. Just burst into tears and said yes, he killed all of them, and that we should clap him in irons and take him away. We had a confession, we had his footprints at another one of the crime scenes… We just don’t know how he got _in_.”

“The recipe room at the Bakers’ Guild is in the cellars, and kept under rigorous lock and key, and yet Mr Joplin gained access?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Vimes says. “There wasn’t any way in – no grates, no passageways, nothing. Sergeant Angua sweeped the room for somewhere he might have gained access from, and we’re sure he must have come _up_ from underneath the city based off the stench on his clothes, but we don’t know _how_.”

“Have you the contents of Mr Joplin’s pockets?” Vetinari asks, and Vimes gestures across the room. It grates on him, Drumknott supposes, to have Vetinari involve himself in his investigation… “Drumknott.”

Drumknott sets Wuffles down on the ground, passing his lordship the dog’s leash, and he steps forward, examining the contents of the table set aside. There is a small box, with an inventory card pinned to the front… The items ought, in Drumknott’s opinion, be individually labelled, with an index card on a ribbon, perhaps, but—

Well.

“May I touch, Commander?” Setting his gloves neatly on the table, Drumknott turns back to Vimes, who had been glaring at the silent Patrician, apparently unnoticed in this ministration.

“Mm,” Vimes grumbles, and Drumknott draws the expected item from the box, parting the two wooden leaves to reveal the wax tablet within, which has not been scrubbed lean with the back of the stylus. Drumknott recognises the corner of Prog Alley against God Street, inscribed in wax. Various unexpected alleyways come away from the expected shape of the streets, and Drumknott turns around, holding the wax tablet out to Vetinari, who takes it, examining the wax.

Vimes’ hand doesn’t move quite as fast as Vetinari’s can, but he moves faster than Drumknott can pull his hand away, and Drumknott lets out a short noise of surprise as Vimes turns the hand palm upward.

“Very rough hands for a clerk, Mr Drumknott,” he says. His gaze is focused on the new cut on the heel of Drumknott’s hand. “What’s that from? Dog take offence to a misfiled letter?”

“I don’t misfile things, your excellency,” Drumknott says quietly. “I believe Wuffles knows that.” Vetinari gives Drumknott a warning glance over Vimes’ shoulder, and Drumknott says, “Merely a cut from a knife downstairs. Nothing to worry about.” It’s a neat deception, one that Drumknott does not hesitate in putting out, but Vimes is unconvinced.

“Funny angle to cut yourself from,” he says suspiciously.

“I believe an Assassin was holding the knife at the time,” Vetinari supplies, and Vimes drops Drumknott’s wrist, turning to look at Vetinari. “Do your people know what these marks are?”

“It’s a draft map,” Vimes answers. “We think of the undercity. It’s half-done, but he must have used it to get himself up and into the Bakers’ Guild. I expect he’s copied it from some collated map.”

“I wasn’t aware there _was_ a collated map of the undercity,” Vetinari says.

“Well,” Vimes retorts. “Apparently, there _is_.”

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

“Franklin Joplin is the same height as his brother, isn’t he?” Drumknott asks as they walk up the stairs to the Oblong Office. “With the same sort of hair, similar eyes?”

“I believe so,” Vetinari says, as if he doesn’t see the relevance of this statement.

“And Ferdinand Joplin is our young man who’s been walking around the undercity and the sewers, evidently drawing a map, and his brother must have used the same passageways. So you think that Franklin is the real killer?”

“Do I?”

“Well, if Mr Stubbs was caught from behind, it’s quite possible that Ferdinand wasn’t actually trying to strangle him – if he walked in while his brother was in the act of slitting his throat, he might have been trying to stem the wound’s flow.”

“Do you think?”

“ _My lord_ ,” Drumknott says plaintively as they enter Vetinari’s office, pushing the door closed behind them, and Vetinari turns to look at him.

“Drumknott,” Vetinari says patiently, “I find that you are sometimes overly concerned with saying aloud that which need not be said. Are you so insecure in your powers of deduction that you feel you must be so far from the mark?”

“No, sir,” Drumknott says. “But you didn’t _say_ anything to Commander Vimes, so I—”

“The amount of things I don’t tell Commander Vimes could fill the entirety of the file room next door, Drumknott, and in fact…” He trails off, meaningfully, and Drumknott frowns, taking Lord Vetinari’s coat from him and hanging it neatly on the rack, setting his gloves on the appropriate shelf. “Did you make any other observations you would like to share?”

“No, my lord,” Drumknott says. He almost wants to ask, in this moment, why he can't be permitted a day off in the coming week, but instinct dissuades him.

“Very well,” Vetinari murmurs, seeming amused for some reason Drumknott cannot determine. “I believe the afternoon post has arrived, and we have only twenty minutes before our meeting with Mr Prince and his committee. If you would…?”

Drumknott gives an inclination of his head, and he steps out into the corridor, moving into his own office. Certainly, the afternoon post has arrived, and has been set neatly on the table beside the door. Drumknott takes up the letters, of which there are only two, and hesitates.

A parcel, square and wrapped in brown paper and neatly tied string, rests on the table.

**MR R. DRUMKNOTT  
** **PATRICIAN’S PALACE  
** **ISLE OF GODS**

He hasn’t ordered anything, and although Wendy does occasionally send him a parcel, she has a pretty, curling script – this is a scruffy scrawl, only legible because the letters are written with such largesse.

If the parcel has been brought up to his office, however, which was locked, the Dark Clerks must already have vetted it… Reaching back for a letter opener on his desk, he cuts the parcel strings and draws back the brown paper, taking up the receipt card pinned to the box.

_Mr R. Drumknott,_

_Here enclosed you will find your orders of:_

  * _Mr Jaikov’s Beginners’ Guide to Reading Music_
  * _Mr Jaikov’s Guide to Reading Everything **[10]**_
  * _Complete Sonatas for Pianoforte Solo, by Mr H. Jaikov_
  * _Great Opera Arias and Themes for Solo Piano_
  * _Bloodaxe and Ironhammer, arranged for Pianoforte Solo_
  * _It’s More Fun With Four Hands, by Byron Gout_



_We hope to enjoy your custom again. In the event you should like to place another order, please send word or drop into:_

_Haverly’s Music Supplies_  
134 High Trouser Lane  
Ankh-Morpork

_Upon presentation of this letter, you shall be entitled to a one-time only discount of 10% on your purchase, valid until Grune 25 th. _

_Thank you for your custom,_

_Mr Dean Haverly **[11]**  
Haverly’s Music Supplies_

Drumknott stares at the letter, and then he draws the box open, examining the cover of the first of the music books. On the cover, a rakish gentlemen sits at a piano with a blushing woman beside him, their feet interlinked as all four of their hands brush the keys.[12] He imagines sitting at a piano, hip to hip with Lord Vetinari, their hands each set against the keys…

Drumknott smiles, and then he turns away from the parcel, opening the two letters Lord Vetinari had received and bringing them next door.

“Is that everything, Drumknott?” Vetinari asks as he corrects a spelling error at a clerks’ report from downstairs.

 _Overly concerned_ , Drumknott thinks, _with saying aloud that which need not be said_. He draws his finger once more over the cut on the heel of his hand: Vetinari is not looking at him, and his gaze is instead focused quite completely on the report.

“Nothing else of note, my lord,” he says politely. “Merely an order of some music books.”

“Oh, very good,” Vetinari says approvingly, with not even the slightest measure of implication. “And as for your day off, Drumknott, I have scheduled each Octeday in March to give you four hours or so reprieve in the afternoon. This will be sufficient, I hope, to attend to Professor Woo’s file room?”

“Yes, my lord, I believe so.”

“There is a piano forte in the drawing room near to the library. Stebbins will give you the key.” He does not look up as he speaks, and says it all uncaringly, as if it doesn’t matter. For some reason, this is… _Pleasant_ , and Drumknott has to prevent himself from smiling.

He feels warm as he moves toward the door. “I’ll make up the meeting room for Mr Prince, my lord.”

“Thank you, Drumknott,” Vetinari says casually. “Oh, and, Drumknott?”

“My lord?”

“The drawing room is quite soundproofed.” There is a lurch in Drumknott’s stomach, and his mouth is dry. Vetinari glances up to meet his eye, and he gives him a casual smile. Surely he couldn’t mean… The very idea blooms in his mind: more than Drumknott and Vetinari at the piano together, but Drumknott bent over the stool, or trying to play even as— “Even if you play very late at night, you won’t disturb anybody. Your practice hours might be whatever is convenient to you.”

Drumknott feels like he has been dropped in hot water, embarrassed at looking for implication where none was to be found, but Vetinari’s expression is fixated on his face, and he supposes this misunderstanding was rather the _point_. “Very good, my lord,” he says, and he gives a nod of his head before he moves to set up the meeting room.

 

[1] The very thought makes Drumknott shift in his bed, tangling his bedsheets around his feet, an unfortunate habit of his.

[2] Perhaps unsurprisingly, this tavern’s name was a mistake, but nonetheless, it is a comfortable spot in Dimwell.

[3] Room XB is quite well-behaved for the rest of the year, and the reason it specifically becomes aggressive around March-time is usually put to the fact that Jericus Abbot, Hoo’s predecessor, had died in March some forty-two years past. Professor Abbot had been a great player of the trombone, but attempts to actually play the trombone had been met with distaste and some bloodshed on the part of the files. Drumknott’s piano-playing, for an hour or so a few times every week, would serve to calm them without retaliation.

[4] Drumknott’s singing voice is somewhere between “dying frog” and “tortured cat”, and his schoolmaster had seen fit to ensure he never saw the inside of a choir room at any point in his educational career.

[5] These are to supplement the three pencils he already carries on his pencil, _just in case_.

[6] Wuffles’ sneezes are an eruptive occurrence, and have been known to clear whole corridors of bystanders, that they might avoid the explosion of phlegm, slobber, and canine snot.

[7] Some young men, regardless of what they might do to style their hair or adjust their clothes, reside in the realm of the goofy. Mr Joplin was one of these young men.

[8] Drumknott, at least, took some satisfaction at the fact that said card was addressed to _Sybil and family_ , and was apparently more to do with Lord Vetinari’s long-standing friendship with Sybil Ramkin as opposed to Vimes.

[9] For the most part, nor does Vetinari.

[10] Not as much of an exaggeration as one might think, Mr Jaikov was a believer in reading one’s audience, fellow musicians, and the general mood as well as the music one was playing at any moment. Ironically, Mr Jaikov dictated all of his guides, as he had great success in reading everything but Morporkian.

[11] Mr Haverly is better known as Handless Haverly, but being a retired wizard, still plays a great many instruments with skill and aplomb, and writes in a messy but legible hand. Er. Script..

[12] Mr Gout also produced a music book named, _It’s Even More Fun With Six!_ , but he later fell into disrepute due to the fact that the book was co-authored by his half-sister.


	13. Bold

The matter of the Joplins is not as complicated as perhaps it could be. Ferdinand has always been very loyal to his brothers, and indeed, to his father – the youngest of the three Joplins, he is an incredibly earnest young man disinterested in the expectations of his class, in women, in being a merchant, and, indeed, in _almost_ everything.

Vetinari remembers a little over a decade past, seeing the three Joplin boys at some party or other at one of the big homes just outside of Ankh-Morpork. Franklin Joplin, the eldest, had already been the very image of his father, set in his well-pressed suit, his chin high, his shoulders back: an heir to an empire, and well aware. Felix, the second of the brothers, had taken more after his mother in his looks, his hair a dark brown instead of blond, and as far as Vetinari’s aware, he’s the quartermaster on one of the vessels in the mercantile fleet.

And Ferdinand…

Young Ferdinand had gone missing very soon into the night, and had been discovered painstakingly mapping, by lanternlight, the hedge maze outside. He is a natural cartographer, it seems, and is the subject of much disappointment for his father, who regards the interest as _lowly_.

Vetinari knows precisely how to deal with this.

Men like Ferdinand Joplin, well-meaning and innocent at their cores, are ever to be taken advantage of. And men like Franklin Joplin, with violent streaks, a taste for revenge… Hm. The precise nature of this obsession is yet to unfold itself, but Vetinari has a suspicion he knows is likely quite accurate.

All will reveal itself in the coming days – in the meantime, Ferdinand Joplin will be apprehended in safety in the Tanty, awaiting trial, and safe from anyone who might do him damage.

Of course, the many turning wheels of Ankh-Morpork do not cease their rotations because of one familial drama. As is ever the case, a thousand plots and schemes unfold themselves at once, the world changing around them bit by bit by bit. New business comes to Ankh-Morpork, and old business is…

The same as ever.

After a day of meetings, back-to-back, with scarcely time in between to complete the importance of paperwork, Vetinari’s head is aching. The slight throb between his eyes is not to be ignored, and when Drumknott steps into the Oblong Office a little before half-past ten, Drumknott comes with a cup of tea, which he sets down beside Vetinari’s desk.

“You may retire, if you wish, Drumknott,” Vetinari says, even as he glances at the tea and inhales its strange scent. A bark tea, he thinks, and lacking the usual hint of ginger in that which Drumknott brings him. He turns a questioning look toward the clerk, who meets his gaze levelly.

“Willow bark tea, my lord,” Drumknott says. “For your headache. And I will retire when you retire, my lord.”

“Drumknott, I am not going to retire,” Vetinari says patiently, but he takes up the tea and sips at it, tasting the strangeness of it: slightly bitter, and woody, but not entirely unpleasant. Willow bark, he is aware, contains a natural anodyne, and as for _noticing_ his headache… It does not show, Vetinari believes, in his concentration, but doubtless Drumknott has noticed the way he occasionally rubs at one of his temples, and noticed that he has dimmed the candlelight slightly.

“Very well, my lord,” Drumknott replies. “Shall we go through the minutes of the Council next, or the particularities of the events in the Entertainment District this morning?”

“For half an hour, Drumknott, I am going to drink this tea, and not look at any written script whatsoever.” Drumknott’s lips shift into an ever-so-slight smile, and he gives a small inclination of his head. There is something to the way he holds himself, Vetinari thinks. He had been neatly put together when he had arrived some five months past, but now, he walks even more silently than once he had, and with a pride Vetinari does not imagine in his shoulders.

“Yes, sir,” he says. “I will attend—”

“Drumknott, you will recess when _I_ recess,” Vetinari says.

Drumknott’s mouth opens, as if to object, but he seems to think better of it, and he closes his mouth. Vetinari notices, not for the first time in the past two days, the way that his two littlest fingers drag over the inside of his palm. They are rough palms, and indeed, on the left hand there is a slick, shiny burn, but it is not this that he touches. It is the little cut Vetinari had made, that had drawn even Vimes’ eagle eye… Vetinari will allow for it, until the cut heals – if this happens once more, later on, _then_ , he thinks, they might discuss the lack of subtlety. For now…“Yes, sir,” Drumknott says quietly.

Vetinari takes a long draw of the tea, and then he stands to his feet. His thigh is not aching so much as usual, his nerves distracted by the throbbing pain in his head, but it is stiff from disuse, for this afternoon, he had had to make do without their afternoon promenade in the palace grounds: Drumknott had taken Wuffles himself, whilst Vetinari had met with Lord Rust.

Making his way closer, he watches as Drumknott turns to face him, and he sees Drumknott’s gaze flit down toward his leg. It is but a moment’s shift of his gaze, and yet, how revealing it is of Drumknott’s sensitivity, his own abilities where deduction are concerned.

“Show me your hands, Drumknott,” Vetinari says.

Drumknott draws his hands from in front of his stomach, where they had been neatly clasped, and he holds them at chest height, turning them palm upward. They’re held very neatly, and Vetinari looks between the two of them. Drumknott’s left hand has the burn Vetinari had observed before, with the addition of the cut he’d made – a simple way of making his meaning clear, and one Drumknott seems to have taken to heart even more than he had expected.

The right hand has more callouses than the left, noticeable where he holds a quill or a pencil, but it lacks the number of scars he has on the left hand. Reaching out, Vetinari brings his own hands, palm up, beneath Drumknott’s, his fingers lingering on the back of his hands and tracing the shape of the tendons beneath the skin.

“You aren’t righthanded,” Vetinari says.

“No, sir,” Drumknott agrees.

“And yet you write with your right hand.”

“Yes, sir. My schoolmaster when I began at Linkston was of the belief that lefthandedness was a sign of some future iniquity. I can write with my left hand, albeit not so well as my right. But most stationery is made for the right hand, sir, so it is hardly the greatest of losses[1].”

“Did he beat you?” Vetinari asks. He hears the hitch in Drumknott’s breath.

“Yes, sir.”

“A cane?”

“A switch.”

“On the palm?”

“Mostly.”

“Did you enjoy it?” He asks the question in a neat, measured tone, and he sees the flash of surprise in Drumknott’s face before he collects himself once more to composure. Pain had been a natural part of Vetinari’s education, as one educated in the Assassins’ Guild School, and once or twice, he had indeed sought out one injury or other, but it had always been in the pursuit of using the mark or injury or cast to profess himself an innocent of something else, or to imply one thing or other. It had been a play at the manipulation he performs every day, as an adult.

It hadn’t been because of the _pain_.

“Not—” He pauses for a moment, and then he continues, “Not exactly, my lord.”

“Did you enjoy it when I cut you?”

“I… Perh— I don’t…”

Vetinari arches an eyebrow at the way he stumbles over his answer, and Drumknott meets his gaze.

“Yes,” he says, finally. Drumknott’s hands are cold where Vetinari touches them, but they are deceptively strong – likely because he spends so much time wrestling with uncooperative staplers and the like. “The pain is… grounding.”

“I see.”

“My lord,” Drumknott says, “may I ask you a personal question?” Vetinari considers this for a moment. He could refuse – doubtlessly, Drumknott would accept it were he to do so, and would make no complaint, although he would likely be disappointed. Yesterday, after all, Vetinari had refused him his day’s reprieve without explanation, and his disappointment had showed even as he’d taken Vetinari’s refusal so seriously: and yet, how his face had shone with delight, when he returned and had seen the music books…

It had been… _pleasant_ , to see him so easily delighted. Such a simple thing, and yet, how easily Drumknott had shown his contentment. Vetinari has never really sought out a romantic connection, but there is a pleasure in this even though it is _not_ romantic – there is a distinct satisfaction in so heightening Drumknott’s mood.

“You may,” Vetinari says.

“Did you enjoy cutting me?”

“That _is_ personal,” Vetinari says. Drumknott turns his head slightly, looking at Vetinari’s cravat, his chest. He lets it hang for a moment in the air, feels the way Drumknott tenses, and then he says, “I enjoyed… your response.”

Drumknott looks back up to his face. His lips are parted, and Vetinari enjoys the way he leans forward just slightly, enjoys the subtle control he has over Drumknott in these little situations. His head is still throbbing, but the headache – perhaps entirely as a result of some placebo gleaned from the tea, more likely because he isn’t forcing himself to focus on tightly-written, ordered script on parchment – has faded slightly.

“What is it, I wonder, that prevented you from going to the Blue Cat Club?” Vetinari asks softly, his voice low and deliberate as he reaches out, adjusting Drumknott’s cravat under his fingers. Drumknott inhales, and he looks at Vetinari with a fascinating expression in his eyes, one of complete and _utter_ devotion.

“Fidelity, my lord.”

“To _me_?”

“To my work.”

“Ah, I see,” Vetinari says assuredly. “To me.”

“You’re playing with me.”

“Am I?”

 “You don’t do this to anyone else.”

“Don’t I?”

“No.”

“And how would you know, Drumknott?”

“You don’t have time,” he says, with confidence.

“Perhaps I make time.”

Drumknott’s confidence flickers, but then he says, “You don’t even make time for sleep.”

“And yet I make time for you. Why is that?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know, my lord.”

“No? You seemed ready to anticipate my actions just a moment ago.”

“Within reason, my lord.”

“Within reason, I _see_.”

“You talk with me more than you talk with most people.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“You aren’t going to elucidate?”

Drumknott blinks, and then decides: “No.”

“You’re treading on dangerous ground.”

“Yes, my lord, but I would have to leave your office to tread elsewhere.”

“There aren’t many who would risk _wit_ while I have my hands so close to their neck, Drumknott,” Vetinari murmurs, but he cannot deny the satisfaction that bubbles within him, the _delight_ at this show of backbone. Drumknott is so entirely deferential, with most, and politely does what is asked of him, and yet here there is such… _Percipience_. Vetinari rather likes it.

“There aren’t many who wouldn’t mind if you choked them, my lord,” Drumknott replies, and then his composure breaks, his flush drawing as a red mask over his cheeks, and he turns his head away.

“Bad _form_ , Drumknott, breaking such splendid rhythm,” Vetinari says with good humour, drawing his hands away. “And we were working well toward a crescendo, I’m sure.”

“My apologies, my lord,” Drumknott says quietly. He isn’t _meek_ , exactly, but Vetinari can read the exhilaration in his features, can see the slight smile that drags at his lips. “Merely that I can’t quite believe I said that.”

“No? I can.” Drumknott laughs, albeit softly. Vetinari cannot help but wonder, in a distant way, exactly how this will end. Perhaps Drumknott will be inhumed by some well-meaning Assassin; perhaps he will die in Vetinari’s service, in some ridiculous little act of heroism. Perhaps, when he inevitably realises that this is not the sort of _romantic_ entanglement he is doubtless envisioning, he will make his play at betrayal, and Vetinari will be forced to… Take measures.

In the meantime, of course, those concerns are far off. Here is a young man, eager to please, and with such _potential_ , such perceptive capability for thought. In the event, Vetinari thinks, that Drumknott tires of his position as personal clerk, and is in want of promotion to some alternate position, that might be possible. Send him farther away, allow him a position as Dark Clerk, and in the event that in pursuing his ambitions, he _mistakenly_ believes he might take advantage of any care he imagines Vetinari has for him as an individual, why.

So much the better.

“Sit down,” Vetinari says, tipping his chin toward the seat before his desk, and Drumknott slowly moves to sink down into the seat. He moves carefully and fastidiously, sinking down against the dark wood. Drumknott’s clerk’s robe has been set aside, as they expect no more visitors for the duration of the evening, and he is dressed only in his suit: he holds himself very neatly, his back straight, his elbows settling lightly against the arms. “Unbutton your suit blazer.”

Drumknott’s fingers move slowly to obey, and Vetinari watches his fingers as he draws his suit jacket open, and Vetinari holds out his right hand. Drumknott glances from his outstretched palm up to his face, and then he obeys the silent instruction, allowing the jacket to slip from his shoulders, and Vetinari takes a step toward his own chair, momentarily hanging the it over the back of his own chair.

Taking up his tea, he says, “You refused Mr Juniper’s advances.” As he sips at the hot liquid, feeling the bitter taste settle warm and soothing on his tongue, he watches Drumknott’s face, which is so studiously expressionless as to be revealing.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you refuse _every_ man’s advances?”

Drumknott gives him a look that is momentarily wry, but gives way to polite deference once he sees Vetinari’s arched eyebrow. “Apparently not, my lord.”

Vetinari’s lip twitches. “Unfasten your trousers.”

Drumknott doesn’t question it, doesn’t even pause before he obeys. There is something in this, Vetinari muses, something he enjoys. He feels a slight tension beneath his skin, drawn out beneath the surface, and he can feel the shift of emotion in his stomach. Drumknott’s fingers move slowly, measuredly, on the fastenings of his trousers, and when Vetinari says, “Go on,” he does.

Drumknott neatly unbuttons the fastenings on his breeches, which are deep blue and, quite unmistakably, have been ironed. Presumably, he does this himself, but that doesn’t surprise him – Drumknott likely finds a great deal of comfort in ironing and folding his clothes, and Vetinari would not be surprised to find he has a very particular budget for that which he wears.

Drumknott’s breathing is a little faster than before, but Vetinari can see that he is doing his best to control the response: the breaths are shallow and quiet, and Vetinari watches as he sets his palms on his thighs, not letting himself touch before Vetinari’s instruction. Drumknott may be a masochist, that much is true, but like Vetinari, he also gleans satisfaction from _control_ , and the subtleties therein. He has a fatal attraction to the ever-enticing idea of _order_ , and he enjoys, so it seems, giving up his own autonomy to better grasp at such things.

It is one thing, to neatly control Ankh-Morpork through one machination or another: this is something entirely different. This is Drumknott laying himself on a platter and offering himself up, and Vetinari sees the…

 _Subtle_ appeal.

He sees the shift of Drumknott’s chest beneath his vest and shirtsleeves, sees the heady flush on his cheeks, and between his legs he can see the evidence of blood beginning to flow downward, with his trousers and underclothes drawn apart to reveal what lies beneath. In the thatch of neatly trimmed, curly hair, which is slightly lighter and has more of a red tint than the hair on Drumknott’s head, he can see Drumknott’s member.

He’s half-hard in the dim candlelight, and Vetinari says, quietly, “Take yourself in hand.”

With his left hand, Drumknott draws his palm around his member, and Vetinari hears the hitch in his breath as he slowly drags his hand around himself. It is of an average length, comfortably thick in his hand, and circumcised. Vetinari is aware that some of the Omnian sects perform this practice, but it isn’t all that common in Ankh-Morpork, he doesn’t believe.

Then again, he has never performed a survey[2].

Vetinari drains the last of his tea from the cup, and he sets it neatly down upon its saucer, stepping neatly around his desk and around Drumknott’s chair, that he might stand directly behind the younger man where he sits in the seat, his hand making slow, rhythmic movements over himself.

Wet at its head and straining in his palm, Drumknott’s erection twitches visibly when Vetinari breathes on the back of his neck, and Vetinari hears the quiet noise that works its way up from the base of Drumknott’s throat.

“You seem very well-practised at this,” Vetinari murmurs into his ear, and a thrum of pleasure runs up his spine at the way Drumknott _shudders_ in his place, his hips tipping up and into his own grip. “Do you often practice self-denial?”

Drumknott’s hand stutters slightly in his movement, and then says in an audibly strained voice, “Yes.”

“You draw out for some time, I suspect, your occasions of auto-eroticism.”

Drumknott moans, and it serves as an easy assent: Vetinari laughs quietly, and he feels the thread of interest coil in his stomach. No, he would not like to be involved himself, does not want to feel the sweat-slick sensation of Drumknott’s desperate arousal beneath his own fingers, but he enjoys the _sight_ of it, enjoys hearing precisely how affected Drumknott is in the modulated tones of his voice.

“And what, I wonder, do you think of?” Vetinari asks, the rhetorical question making Drumknott _squirm_ in his seat, his grip still tight around himself. His breathing is growing ragged, although he keeps his rhythm – quite admirable, that. “Do you think of _me_?”

Drumknott gasps in a breath, his chest expanding at the force of the inhalation, and Vetinari reaches over his other shoulder. He feels the way Drumknott goes ramrod stiff underneath his shadow, letting out a desperate little noise that he tries to keep back behind his teeth, and Vetinari hooks one finger at the silver of Drumknott’s watch chain, drawing it from his pocket and examining the watch face.

It’s an old watch, battered and scratched on its face, and Vetinari looks at tick of the second timer. The watch is slightly out of time, he believes, but certainly it has been just under half an hour since they began their interval to the night’s work. Drumknott, whose hips had stumbled in their thrusts against his palm when he had thought – quite mistakenly – Vetinari would touch him, is breathing very heavily.

“I believe our time is up, Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari murmurs, his lips brushing the cool skin that serves the shell of Drumknott’s ear.

Drumknott lets out a _noise_ , which…

Vetinari would have to take a moment to describe that noise.

Strangled, high, and all but wrenched from Drumknott’s gasping throat, it is heavy with eagerness, and despite the fact of Vetinari’s _declination_ to allow him his natural fruition, this noise implies he is the more excited for it. Vetinari should like to replicate that noise in future.

“Is this a punishment, my lord?” Drumknott asks, but oh-so- _obediently,_ he reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief, tenderly wiping off his palm and his wet _membrum virile_ , and tucking himself as neatly as he can back into his breeches and his trousers. They do well, in hiding the bulge beneath the fabric, but it is _visible_ , nonetheless, and Vetinari hides his smirk against the back of Drumknott’s neck. When his nose brushes Drumknott’s hair, Drumknott shivers.

“Oh, no,” Vetinari says. “In the event I need to punish you, Drumknott, a half hour would not at all suffice.” Drumknott’s hips shift slightly, and Vetinari watches his hands clench. “The idea inspirits you, I see.”

“I believe you knew that it would, my lord.”

“You may be right.”

Drumknott turns his head to look at Vetinari where he leans over his chair, and he watches in detached curiosity at the way Drumknott’s gaze flits down to Vetinari’s mouth. Vetinari does not enjoy kissing. He will allow for some things – he will kiss the back of a lady’s hand or kiss her on her cheeks; he kisses Margolotta’s cheek when he sees her, and does the same for Aunt Bobbi. But kissing a _partner_ …

As a youth, he recalls his experimentation. His attractions had started with other men, in other Assassins or higher-ups in some of the other guilds; strapping, handsome men in the street; the mysterious John Keel and his _gruff_ , but judicial demeanour, but it wasn’t until a little after that so-called _Glorious Revolution_ that he had reached out to other men. He had never done it as himself, as _Havelock Vetinari_ , no: he had pursued such things under other guises, as a working man from Dolly Sisters[3], as an engineer, even once as a librarian, but _sex_ had left him disinterested. It had been so messy, and so complicated, and the kissing of which his fellow young Assassins had spoken of so highly had left him quite cold. Where was the appeal, in crushing his lips against another man’s, feeling his wet tongue and the taste of his teeth?

He is certain there are elements of the experience that are beyond him, in one way or another, but such is life. If Havelock Vetinari experienced the world in the way other people did, he has no doubt he would be far less efficient.

Drumknott sees in Vetinari’s face, Vetinari suspects, his disinterest, and his gaze flits away again. He clears his throat before he asks, “Shall we go through the minutes of the Council next, or the particularities of the events in the Entertainment District this morning?”

“Bring both,” Vetinari murmurs, standing and reaching for Drumknott’s suit jacket. As he stands to his feet, Vetinari holds it out, ignoring Drumknott’s gesture as if to take it for himself. With a self-effacing uncertainty, Drumknott puts out his arms, and Vetinari slides the jacket back on over his shirtsleeves, smoothing away the creases and taking a cursory inventory, as he does so, of the muscle in Drumknott’s arms. He is not so strong as Vetinari, not by half, but they are harder to the touch than one would expect, even if the muscle is not especially toned.

“Thank you, my lord,” Drumknott says, and Vetinari moves fast, to whip Drumknott up against the wall, but he ducks and sidesteps Vetinari’s lunge to get behind him. Offsetting Vetinari’s footing by hooking his foot against the back of Vetinari’s ankle, he sees Drumknott reach for the letter opener on one of the side tables, but Vetinari moves too fast for him. Before he can fall back entirely, Vetinari grabs Drumknott by the shoulder, and Drumknott grunts as he tries to get free, but cannot manage it this time.

Shoved up against the back of the door to the Oblong Office, Vetinari’s forearm braced against his upper chest, Drumknott lets out a noise of frustration, and _frowns_ up at him. It is… _charming_ , in a way, to see a look so defiant, and yet to see the spark of excited fear in his eyes. “You said you wouldn’t—”

“I believe I said I wouldn’t _throw_ things at you,” Vetinari corrects before Drumknott can continue. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t test your reflexes.”

“You are _incorrigible_ , my lord,” Drumknott says stoutly. Vetinari notes that he seems to be doing his best not to smile.

“I may well be corrigible, Drumknott,” he muses. “I don’t believe anyone has ever tried to reform me.”

“I don’t believe _that_ , my lord,” Drumknott says, his tone damning, and when Vetinari grins, showing his teeth, he feels the tremble of Drumknott’s chest beneath his arm.

“Nonetheless,” Vetinari murmurs. “A strong effort. You seem quite confident in taking down an opponent larger than yourself.” The precise intention of the words is to test his reaction, and react Drumknott does. His lips part just slightly, his eyes showing the barest smidgen of that charming vexation he had glimpsed before. What would it be like, Vetinari wonders, to break out that temper entirely, and see his response?

“I don’t believe I’ve ever faced an opponent smaller, sir,” Drumknott says, with mild reproach.

“Perhaps not.”

Releasing his secretary from his grip, Vetinari leans back. His head is— Better. Still, there is a light and lingering throb of pain, but it is much more manageable than before, and he will be able to work for at least a while longer. Drumknott gives Vetinari a neat nod of his head, his face the image of composure but for his flushed cheeks, and he steps out into the corridor.

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

“We will retire early tonight, Drumknott,” Vetinari decides the next evening, at eight o’clock precisely. Drumknott, his eyes a little red from lack of sleep, but otherwise quite neatly unruffled, glances up from the stack of files in his arms as he sorts through them. Vetinari has a few rather curious puzzles from the Dark Clerks he wants to examine in the privacy of his repose, and Drumknott…

His composure is remarkable, but Drumknott needs sleep.

“Very well, my lord,” Drumknott says. “Shall I set these aside for the morning?”

“Indeed.”

As they step from their respective offices and toward the stairwell, Vetinari watches as Drumknott takes a few steps downstairs, his briefcase neatly held beneath one arm.

“Going out, Drumknott?” he asks, and Drumknott turns back to look at him, holding the briefcase neatly against his arm. Unlike the pocket watch, his briefcase is not at all battered, and Vetinari wonders who had given him the watch – it must have been a gift, for him to wear it, and he expects it was second-hand. He can’t imagine even a younger Drumknott scuffing his watch.

“No, my lord,” he says. “I thought I would take some time to practice at the piano before bed.”

“Ah,” Vetinari murmurs, and he gives a neat inclination of his head as he ascends the stairs. “Good night, Drumknott.”

“Good night, my lord.”

It is an hour later that he hears Drumknott’s quiet footsteps in the corridor, retiring to his bed, and he hears the pause in the corridor, frowning. The footsteps move on the boards, and he hears them come toward the door to his first dummy bedroom[4], and he moves swiftly through the secreted panel in the door, making his way swiftly into it before he can knock on the door.

He opens it, and he looks down at the figure of Drumknott, his knuckles poised as if to knock, now in line with Vetinari’s chest. He looks up at Vetinari, and says quietly, “I do hope I didn’t wake you, sir.”

“I was sleeping _soundly_ , Drumknott,” Vetinari says sternly, and Drumknott’s humour shows in his eyes, but not in the set of his mouth.

“My apologies, my lord,” he says quietly. “Merely that I had a request of— Of a personal nature, and I wished to ask before I took to bed.”

This is _bold_ , even for Drumknott – so bold, in fact, as to be an overstep, and Vetinari keeps his gaze directly on Drumknott’s face as he adjusts his grip upon his briefcase, wherein he has undoubtedly one of his music books. He had thought Drumknott had more _restraint_ than this, and what a shame to think that might not be the case…

“Pray, Drumknott, go on,” Vetinari murmurs.

“I have merely been musing, my lord, as I played downstairs,” Drumknott says. “Would it meet with your approval were I to schedule with Mr Lockheed to take some tutelage with one of the Dark Clerks?”

… _Ah_. For the second time in as many days, Drumknott has surprised him, and yet this is not merely a slip-up owing to Vetinari’s _privileged_ position[5], but a matter of Vetinari’s own distracted train of thought, happening over the issue of sexuality where Drumknott is concerned.

“Tutelage?” Vetinari repeats innocently. “I do not believe Mr Lockheed is a pianist himself, Drumknott, although I believe I’ve seen him, once or twice, with a mouth organ.”

“In self-defence, my lord,” Drumknott says measuredly. “That I might better meet your approval in this arena, and improve with more alacrity.”

“Why should it _not_ meet with my approval?” Vetinari asks.

“I wouldn’t want you to believe, my lord, that perhaps I found your tutelage on the matter insufficient, or ill-suited to me as a result of lacking patience.” Drumknott says quietly. “In the event your intentions run in a particular direction, I also shouldn’t like to muddy the waters by taking on an alternate education that should interfere with your own.”

“I don’t believe that will be an issue,” Vetinari murmurs. He appreciates the _concept_ of it – that Drumknott should wish to improve his ability in self-defence, and… He knows the reason, he believes, but he is curious as to what Drumknott will say, if he asks. “Pray, Drumknott, do you enjoy our spars so much that you would look for more of the same from Mr Lockheed?”

Drumknott shakes his head. “Merely that I should like to be a more worthy opponent, my lord.” How _charming_. He does not wish to learn for his _own_ sake, but because he believes it will better suit Lord Vetinari.

“Why not take a class at the Assassins’ Guild?”

Drumknott blinks, staring up at him, apparently uncomprehending. “I— My lord, I’m quite certain I couldn’t afford the fees.”

“And you don’t like Assassins.”

“I never said that, my lord.”

“I know.” Vetinari gives a slow nod of his head. “Very well, Drumknott. Speak with Mr Lockheed tomorrow morning, and schedule your time as you like.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Drumknott says, taking a step back.

“How did your practice go?”

“Ah.” Drumknott looks ruefully down the corridor, in the vague direction of the drawing room, and he shakes his head. Even as he does so, he reaches up, rubbing tiredly at one of his eyes. It’s a curiously _endearing_ gesture, but not one that strikes Vetinari as performative. “I’ve memorised the positions of the notes on the staff, and I understand the beats per bar, but the two skills feel quite distinct in my head. Reading the notes and playing the music… The two skills strike me, as yet, no more connected than reciting the alphabet and performing a fandango. This will change with practice, I’m sure.”

“ _Can_ you fandango?” Vetinari asks curiously.

“I don’t believe so, my lord,” Drumknott says. “Can you?” He _is_ feeling bold.

Vetinari smiles. It is a close-lipped smile, one that he pairs with one of the darkest looks he can manage with such light-coloured eyes, and he watches keenly as Drumknott shifts slightly on his feet, fidgeting under his gaze.

“Good night, Drumknott,” Vetinari says.

“Good night, my lord,” Drumknott says, and he hurries up the hall, disappearing into his own bedroom, like as not to muse on Vetinari for some time before he goes to sleep. Vetinari’s satisfaction warms his blood as he returns to his second bedroom, and allows his mind to focus on cryptography.

When he lies down to sleep, he thinks on Drumknott as he lies on the bed, absently scratching Wuffles’ ears as the dog crawls into bed with him. He rather likes the idea of _punishing_ Drumknott. The idea that Drumknott would enjoy the process just as much is an inescapably pleasant one…

Ah, but in the morning, there is work to be done.

He will, he muses, test Drumknott’s loyalty, and see precisely how far it will go… And perhaps he will tease out that sensational little temper.

 

[1] Drumknott is a gentleman who believes the right stationery is the solution to almost any problem in the world, and believes that if everyone would simply adopt a more sensible filing system and commit themselves to reinforced ringbinders that dissuade foxing, it would swiftly become a much better place.

[2] Members of the Seamstresses’ Guild _had_ , however, and in the year previous, their unofficial census revealed that a little under 10% of Ankh-Morpork’s citizens were circumcised, with the rest of the population remaining uninitiated.

[3] Vincent Wilkinson is an identity he makes occasional use of even now, in order to better understand the happenings around the docks of Ankh-Morpork.

[4] Vetinari currently sits and works in the _second_ of his dummy bedrooms to work, and actually sleeps in an additional, better-hidden third bedroom.

[5] Vetinari has no compunctions as to _why_ it slipped his awareness that a young man might play piano and yet read no music, and it is not a mistake, happily, that he will ever make again.


	14. Duty

After the door is closed behind him, Drumknott is aware of the desperate _ache_ in his body. He’s been feeling it all day, ever since Vetinari sat him down in his office and had him touch himself, and it had been… It had been a truly indescribable experience, hearing Vetinari’s voice in his ear as he’d touched himself, feeling his orgasm gather up to tightness in his belly, bit by bit, and then—

To be _denied_!

It’s like, he thinks, in a sort of distant, dreamy way, coiling an elastic band around and around one’s fingers, pulled so taut that it _vibrates **[1]**_ … And then gently unwinding it to put it away. And Vetinari had just—

They’d just continued about the day’s business.

It had been _unbearable_. It had been _torture_.

He’d loved it.

He shivers as he draws his suit jacket off, hanging it up and beginning to undress himself, and he thinks of how close Vetinari had stood to him, how it had felt to have Lord Vetinari’s hands helping him into his _clothes_ , brushing his arms as he’d done so…

Drumknott had needed to spend some time at the power simply to work out a little of the nervous tension in his body, the desperate desire seething under his skin, and he had thought as he had played, thought… Thought about the sparring. It had been impossible, trying to force his fingers to move over the keys as he’d thought about Vetinari pinning him back against a wall or throwing him down on the mats, his member straining in his trousers, his skin flushed, his heart beating fast.

The necessity to make sparring something _not_ inherently arousing had seemed rather pressing. He had scarcely even _thought_ about what he was actually going to ask until he’d asked it, he’d been so desperate to speak with Vetinari, so hopeful that in knocking at his door, the man might—

Foolish of him, to think that the Patrician might take _mercy_.

But it will be better he thinks, to speak with Mr Lockheed, to actually organise sparring that is more professional. More befitting—

Removing the fileroom key and his Palace handbook, he sets these in his pyjama pocket. His pencils[2] and his general notebook he sets down on the side of his end table, and then he allows his shirt to slide from his shoulders, and he folds it perfectly, into a neat square, setting it down for tomorrow; he sets down too his trousers, folded into the same perfect square. Once upon a time, he might have needed a ruler for this, perhaps even a protractor, but now he’s well-practised, and the motions are ones he could do even in pitch-black, even without eyes at all. He likes for things to be done properly, efficiently. He finds folding things, putting them into order, relaxing.

He takes up his pyjama shirt from where it is folded neatly on the bed, beginning to pull it on. Every morning, he sets his pyjamas ready for the night to come, when he makes his bed. He knows, in some distant way, that there are men and women throughout the city who do not make their beds in the morning. He does not know _how_ they could live like that, but live like that, they do. Drumknott makes his bed every morning, tightly sets the sheets perfectly into their place, sets his pillows back, and then puts his pyjamas down before he goes.

Every night, he removes his clothes, puts on his pyjamas, and washes his face with cold water, as well as taking the brilliantine out of his hair, before embarking on his dental routine: he brushes his teeth, flosses them, swills his mouth with mouthwash[3]. The mouthwash in question was a (stern) recommendation from Archchancellor Ridcully when Drumknott was sixteen, and contains so strong a concentration of peppermint that it would be quite sufficient to freeze the palate out of most men’s mouths. Drumknott, accustomed to its effects, is scarcely aware of it.

It is part of his routine.

He—

 _Prefers_ routine.

Even with the Patrician, their routine is usually worked out carefully in advance: they predict things before they will occur, schedule responses long before their cause is made clear, plan and make neat agendas, perfectly laid-out lists.

He tries not to think of the Patrician, as he performs his evening’s toilette. His skin seems to thrum beneath the surface of his pyjamas, sensitive to even the slightest brush of the cloth against his skin beneath, and then he lays out his clothes for the next morning: fresh breeches, new socks, a different suit that is almost indistinguishable[4] from its fellows.

Ordinarily, he would read or peruse his magazine, but he is tired, and he sits down on the edge of his bed. This is the last thing he does of the night, before he blows out the candle at his bedside: he neatly unclips the garters at his calf, and then removes his socks, laying them aside. He doesn’t like to have bare feet, when it is not absolutely necessary, and he is swift about putting himself beneath the sheets, that his feet not freeze in the pleasant cool of the room, for his circulation is…

_Abominable._

And yet, it seems, not in all areas.

He blows out the candle, and as he lies there in the darkness, his head back against the thick pillow, and he thinks of Lord Vetinari’s mouth against his ear, half-dressed in the Oblong Office, Vetinari—

“ _Do you often practice self-denial?_ ”

Drumknott exhales, and he crams his face into his pillow, lying on his belly and squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

  **♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

“I would like for you to make a delivery for me,” Vetinari says in the morning, and Drumknott glances up from the cryptography he’d been focusing on before looking back to the page, continuing to transcribe the cipher. Trusted clerks often make deliveries within the city, and sometimes even to nearby villages: since the post offices closed down, there is no specific service one might make use of, and certainly not one that might be trusted.

With that said, in five months in Lord Vetinari’s service, he has never personally made a delivery outside of the Palace, and even _those_ deliveries were whilst he was already moving downstairs for some reason. Ordinarily, Lord Vetinari will send a Dark Clerk – someone who can deliver something without being recognised, or even noticed.

To send Drumknott is a _statement_ , he supposes. He will be visible moving through the city; he will be recognisable as the Patrician’s personal clerk when he hands over the parcel. There are various reasons he might do this, of course, but Drumknott racks his brain as he begins to use the cipher to decode the message.

“To… the Historians’ Guild, sir?”

“And why might I send you there, Mr Drumknott?” Vetinari asks, turning to look at him.

“To deliver those letters to Mr Betteridge, personally, the ones Arachne unearthed,” Drumknott answers. “A… _public_ statement of their authenticity.”

“Very good, Drumknott,” Vetinari says, and Drumknott feels himself warm as he returns his code-breaking, doing his best to finish it as quickly as he might… They are getting more difficult, that much is true, but his ability to work on them is improving too: he no longer approaches them as first he did, and although he never feels he will match Lord Vetinari for his ability to glance at a page and translate it readily, read a fourth or fifth layer of meaning as if it is laid clearly out, it _is_ becoming easier. Meanings become naturally abstract, complex codes separated into their salient parts in his mind, and now, nearly everything has become enriched with additional meanings, small implications. It is like peeking into the very edge of the lens through which Vetinari sees the world, and as strange as it is, he feels empowered by it.

An hour or so later, Drumknott draws on his coat, his clerk’s robe hung neatly on the desk, and he takes up his briefcase, neatly setting the parcel of wrapped letters within, and then he returns to the Oblong Office.

“Would you like me to do anything else while I’m in town, my lord?” Drumknott asks, drawing on his gloves, and Vetinari glances up from the report upon which he had been leaving subtle corrections to the spelling. Wuffles is asleep in his lap, curled up on the warm, hard cushion of Vetinari’s thighs.

“No, no, I don’t think so. Do you eat sweets, Drumknott?”

Drumknott considers the question for a moment. “I ate some candies and the like as a child, my lord,” he allows. “And I like pastries well enough, so long as they are sensibly proportioned.”

“Do you like chocolate?” Vetinari asks.

“In moderation, my lord.”

“My predecessor, Lord Snapcase, had a great love of _candied starfish_ ,” Vetinari says. “And, indeed, jellyfish, sweetened in a crystallised form.”

“It sounds very sugary, my lord,” Drumknott says, wondering precisely where this conversation is going, and why it has begun.

“I agree,” Vetinari replies. For a moment, they stand in silence, and yet the weight of _small talk_ ,  as much as Drumknott has never much enjoyed it, does not feel as oppressive as ordinarily it does.  

“Occasionally,” he says, “I will indulge in a pastry from Canderson’s Bakery, on Sator Square.” This was a habit he had fallen into when he had begun work as a clerk: on his days off, or days where he had an afternoon free, he would walk to the Unseen University Library, and occasionally pick up two pastries on the journey. One for him, and one for the Librarian[5]. “They make turnovers with an apricot jam. Not so much as to be overly sweet, but— _Pleasant_.”

Vetinari arches an eyebrow. “Very brave of you,” he comments. “Eating food prepared in the Wizards’ Quarter.”

Drumknott had spent much of his childhood in the Wizards’ Quarter, owing to the amount of times he visited the Unseen University’s Library in any given week, and he is perhaps more used to the general antics of wizards – if not more approving – than the average citizen of Ankh-Morpork. Canderson’s Bakery is a pleasant enough café, and although the doors and windows sometimes rearrange themselves as a practical japery on the patrons and staff alike, he likes their pastries well enough. He is not, at his core, a man predisposed to eating sweet things, such as candies or toffees or the like, and he shouldn’t like to indulge in such things too often.

“I’ve never meditated too much on the fact, my lord,” he says. “I suppose I am merely inured to the worries many people have in that regard.”

“Yes,” Vetinari says slowly, leaning back in his seat, and he interlinks his fingers, setting them absently on Wuffles’ back as he looks at Drumknott, his expression thoughtful[6]. “Well, Drumknott, I shall see you in an hour or so.”

Drumknott gives a nod of his head, and he slips from the Oblong Office, holding his briefcase neatly under one arm. It is a beautiful day outside, the sun shining warmly down and offsetting the chill to the breeze, and he proceeds swiftly to the Historians’ Guild, which rests on the corner of Treacle Mine Road.

The Historians’ Guild is a lofty building, and it contains a lecture hall in which the historians often give day courses in one subject or another, educating about the city as a whole. Drumknott had attended a few in his youth, but had preferred to take his learning in from the page and, regrettably, the Guild Library, on the floor above the lecture hall, is full of exceedingly chatty historians, ordinarily eager to regale one with historical anecdotes. Drumknott had learned to give it a wide berth, although he has visited every public library in the city, at one time or another, and had repeatedly come to value the UU Library keenly above the rest.

There are other parts to the Historians’ Guild, however – winding corridors that lead one past various frescoes painted of family trees, busts of long-dead figures in the city’s history, and so forth. He comes to the small waiting room outside of Mr Betteridge’s office, where his personal secretary, Anita Cartright, is ordinarily positioned just before his desk. Mr Betteridge’s office is actually in the basement – he handles a lot of old parchments, and the preference, Drumknott is aware, is to keep them away from natural sunlight, as well as the toxic chemicals that permeate any gust of fresh air in Ankh-Morpork.

 _At appointment outside of Guild. Please return at 1pm_ , reads the neat card upon her desk, and he takes a moment’s pause. It is five minutes past one o’clock – there is no sense, he doesn’t think, in returning to the Patrician’s Palace just yet, not if they may simply be late. It is odd, he muses, that he hadn’t _known_ of any appointments. The Palace is ordinarily aware of the various appointments of any of the Guild leaders, and knows where any individual is in the city at any moment – why wouldn’t Vetinari have _said_? Surely, Mr Lockheed would have known about this. Is that why he had held Drumknott back for small-talk, that he might be somewhat delayed in going on, that they should arrive back before him? He sets his briefcase down on the bench against the wall. He will simply sit down, and—

He hears the footsteps in the corridor, and he notes without looking back that they aren’t coming from toward the entrance of the building. They are coming from toward the archives in the cellars[7], and he does not turn his head to indicate that he has heard them, because they are slow, careful. The individual in question, he supposes, does not _want_ to be heard, although that is patently ridiculous: he hear the soft swish of clothing, the slow step of clothing, even their breathing[8], and he keeps his gaze on Miss Cartright’s desk as the steps come closer, the air in the room shifting slightly to accommodate the new figure in the room. There’s a strange scent, too. Sea water, he thinks, lingering on the clothes, and _sewage_ , albeit milder than the average street in Ankh-Morpork. Drumknott’s fingers move subtly forward, taking hold of the dagger-blade letter opener on the edge of her desk, which is ill-organised for his liking, and conceals it neatly in his sleeve.

Drumknott allows his body to stiffen, makes himself take in a gasp, as one arm wraps tight around his chest, the other coming up to close hard over his mouth. A big man. Six feet and two, perhaps a little taller: average build, muscular. Well-dressed, he thinks – the fabric of the shirt at the back of his neck feels like silk.

“You’re not Miss Cartright,” says the voice in his ear, low and rich. His breath smells faintly of oranges, Drumknott notes. He doesn’t like it.

“Mmm-mmm,” Drumknott agrees, his mouth pressed closed by the tight palm.

“Are you going to scream?”

“Mmm-mmm,” Drumknott hums.

“Gods,” the voice says. “What a shame.” The hand at his mouth drags his head back slightly, and Drumknott feels the blade set against his throat. The fingers shift, and although they keep their tight grip on his jaw, they bare his lips enough for him to talk. “What’s your name, pretty boy?”

“I do wish people would stop calling me _pretty_ ,” Drumknott says softly, and he lets the blade drop into his palm, but—

Upstairs, Drumknott can hear bootsteps, heavy ones. It isn’t the lecture hall, he doesn’t believe – those bootsteps are too hurried, too fast, and too heavy on the boards as they come to the stairs. For a moment, Drumknott actually feels rather annoyed as silent understanding dawns, his grip tightening on the letter opener, but he doesn’t move to strike with it. There’s a tightness in his chest, a sense of abrupt nausea, and when he thinks of Vetinari, he grits his teeth tightly.

That—

“What?” Franklin Joplin asks.

“Rufus Drumknott,” Drumknott says. “I’m Lord Vetinari’s clerk.”

“ _Really_? Gods, that’s… What a stroke of luck. You see, Mr Betteridge won’t be back until half-past one, but Miss Cartright will come back on the hour, and it is just… It’s just _perfect_ , that you should show up here at the same time, _Mr_ Drumknott. Gods, the _Patrician’s_ clerk, I… I’m really gonna have fun with you.”

“Oh?” Drumknott asks. “You don’t think you’re going to kill me, do you, Mr Joplin?”

Joplin stiffens, and his voice is abruptly hard as he says, “I _know_ I’m going to kill you.”

“If you were a clerk yourself, Mr Joplin, I think you would know that assumptions can be the death of you.” He hears the sharp, indignant noise from Joplin, but he can hear a door further down being thrown open.

The blade presses down, but Drumknott jabs backward, with his elbow instead of the blade in his other hand, and he hears Joplin choke at the sudden blow to his solar plexus. The bootsteps are echoing in the corridor now, and Drumknott ducks out from underneath Joplin’s grip, hitting him hard in the side of the neck and making his grip loosen on the knife so that it clatters on the floor.

Captain Ironfoundersson and Sergeant Angua both rush into the room, and Drumknott steps back from Joplin as Carrot grabs hold of him. “Some commotion in the street, on Broadway, perhaps?” Drumknott asks as Carrot begins to arrest him, reading him various elements from the City Penal Code, and Angua turns to look at him, her nose twitching.

“Cart over turned on Widdershins Way,” she says. “How did you know?”

“Your timing was slightly off,” Drumknott says. “That’s all.”

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

“And his motivation?” Vetinari asks, although Drumknott is aware he must know already, or he wouldn’t do so. He stands at the edge of the Oblong Office, a piece of parchment neatly folded under one arm, as Captain Ironfoundersson reads off his report, Commander Vimes at his shoulder. Commander Vimes, Drumknott notices, keeps glancing in his direction, but Drumknott keeps his gaze forward, feigning not to notice.

“He had become, er— That is to say, _infatuated_ , with his father’s personal clerk, one Mr Henry Needleson, sir. He was quite violent, Mr Needleson said, but he didn’t feel he could refuse outright, because of Mr Joplin’s position,” Carrot says, a slight flush in his cheeks. “And Mr Needleson, in order to avoid his, uh, his attentions, without causing offence, took himself to work with Lord Joplin’s middle son, Felix, so that he would be at sail and away from him. When their ship returned this morning, Mr Needleson and Mr Felix Joplin came to speak with us, saying it couldn’t have been Ferdinand who’d done anything.

“When we came to his rooms at the Joplin Estate, we found he had a lot of maps of the undercity, and he had intercepted correspondence as to the appointments of Mr Betteridge, the Historians’ Guild leader, as well as his secretary, Miss Cartright, as Mr Betteridge was to meet with your head of clerks, er… Yes, Mr Shaw. His secretary we managed to catch while she was on her way back from lunch, but we thought he would still be there, at one o’clock—”

“Very good,” Vetinari says. “By all means, do organise Ferdinand Joplin’s release, and so on. Thank you very much, gentlemen.”

Drumknott waits patiently, until Commander Vimes and Captain Ironfoundersson have left, and once more he is aware of the way Vimes keeps looking at him, but he ignores it, studiously, carefully. When the door is closed behind them, he moves forward, and he neatly sets on Vetinari’s desk the parchment in his hands.

“The afternoon post is yet to arrive, Drumknott, is it not?” Vetinari asks. Drumknott says nothing, standing straight-backed before Vetinari’s desk as he takes up the parchment, his blue eyes scanning quickly over the page. “Ah. And what, Mr Drumknott, is this?”

“My week’s notice, sir,” Drumknott answers.

“I see.” Vetinari’s mask reveals nothing at all, and Drumknott watches one of his index fingers as it absently traces the edge of the page, Vetinari’s gaze full of careful, inward thought. Drumknott is holding his breath, he realizes.

“Well,” he says softly, and his gaze flits up, his lips shifting into a pleasant smile. Drumknott has only ever seen that smile directed at strangers, or at those Vetinari is neatly intimidating, but Drumknott is not a stranger, and he is not intimidated. “I hardly see the point in _that_ , Drumknott. If you wish to tender your resignation, you may consider yourself resigned, and make your way out.”

“My employment here is considered quite terminated, then, my lord?”

“Quite,” Vetinari says. “Please, don’t allow me to detain you.”

“With respect, my lord,” Drumknott says quietly, “I should like to say something before I depart.”

Vetinari raises his chin. “Oh?”

“I might speak freely,” Drumknott says softly. “As you are no longer my employer.”

“And yet, I remain your Patrician. You would do well, I think, to choose your words carefully.” The threat in his voice is unmistakable, and Drumknott ignores the excited shiver that runs down his spine. This is— This is _serious_. This is serious, and he hates the desperate, choking anxiety that burns in his belly, his every organ in knots.

“Always, my lord,” Drumknott says. “But were I not to speak frankly at this juncture, I should feel myself a lesser man. I am Ankh-Morpork’s subject before I am yours.”

Lord Vetinari’s eyebrow gives an almost-imperceptible twitch, rising just slightly, and Drumknott sees his jaw shift slightly. He sweeps his right hand forward in a gesture of invitation, expectant. “ _Do_ go on, Mr Drumknott.”

“This afternoon,” Drumknott says quietly. “You knew that Mr Betteridge had an appointment with Mr Shaw; you knew that Miss Cartright would arrive back some half an hour before him. You knew, also, that Mr Franklin Joplin was also aware of these facts, as Mr Shaw regularly feeds information to Mr Joplin’s father. You knew, also, that this was the day Mr _Felix_ Joplin’s ship was arriving back to port. Doubtless, you had already surmised that Mr Joplin’s preoccupation with clerks was as a result of Mr Needleson’s rejection of him.”

“Why, Drumknott,” Vetinari says, his voice as serpentine as any Drumknott has ever heard him use. “I had no _idea_ I was in possession of such a wealth of information.”

“And thus,” Drumknott says quietly, ignoring this comment as the insult it is, “you sent me, that Mr Joplin would find me in the Historians’ Guild – knowing, I suppose, that I was better prepared, and that Mr Joplin would like to savour waylaying a clerk held in such high regard. You knew that Captain Ironfoundersson, by this point, would already have visited the Joplin Estate, and would have been making his way to the Historians’ Guild as quickly as possible. You _did not_ know, of course, and could hardly have predicted, the cart accident on Widdershins Way, which waylaid he and his partner somewhat.” Drumknott inhales, and he presses his fingers down hard against the cut on his palm, which is almost healed, now, the scab almost faded away and leaving nothing but a little pink line. Soon, it will fade to white, and he won’t even be able to see it there.

“Are you angry?” Vetinari asks softly.

“Yes,” Drumknott says, and it is true. He can feel the anger simmering hot under his skin, feel himself focusing on the pain that he not allow his rage to seep out from beneath the hard shell of his composure, his jaw clenched. “Very angry, my lord.”

“Mr Drumknott,” Vetinari says, in a deliberate, almost theatrical fashion that only serves to grate more on Drumknott’s irritation. “As I informed you with Mr Burlac, you are a tool at my disposal. I will use you as I see fit. It was better, in a general sense, that you should be put in harm’s way, over Miss Cartright, and thus, I acted.”

“In essence,” Drumknott replies, his tone brittle, “I agree. But, my lord, you have acted— _I_ believe,” Drumknott says, scarcely daring to breathe, “that I have… I’ve distracted you, and I oughtn’t have— Because this was _impulsive_ , and I don’t believe I’m wrong when I say that you did it this way, in part, because you wanted to see my response.” The silence in the room is so thick it feels as if a storm might soon break above their heads, and Drumknott doesn’t look away as Vetinari stares directly at his face, his eyes flashing with a glacial coldness that makes the base drop out of Drumknott’s stomach. “It was _stupid_ , my lord. I could have killed him! Had Captain Ironfoundersson been late by even another minute, another thirty seconds, even, I would have cut him down, and who might that have served? How would it have looked? It’s—”

Drumknott inhales hard, and he ignores the desperate fear that makes his bones feel as if they’ve been hewn out of ice, and he swallows hard on the lump in his throat. He is still angry, yes, but the anger mingles with the fear, mingles once more with the desperate indignation of it, the— “I could not, in good faith,” he says, “continue in my position here, knowing that you might prioritize playing with _me_ over your work. I have no doubt, my lord, that there are situations wherein my ignorance will be advantageous, but this was _not_ one of them, and you kept me ignorant for the sake of seeing _my_ reaction, you risked—”

Vetinari moves so inhumanly fast that Drumknott is responding before he even realizes it, his body acting where his mind is too slow, but it matters little: he is bent back over the smaller desk, one warm hand tight around his throat, his shoulders pushed back and his feet dragged off the floor. He struggles, but it makes no difference, and in any case, he doesn't struggle as hard as he could. Vetinari’s knee is pressed hard between his own, and Drumknott can’t help the desperate noise he lets out, clenching his hands tightly at his sides, so tightly his fingernails would dig into the flesh were they not so neatly manicured.

“Is that what makes you angry?” Vetinari asks in a whisper, his voice tinted with something close to urgency. His gaze searches Drumknott’s face, and Drumknott can’t breathe, can’t force his lungs to work, even though Vetinari’s grip isn’t tight enough to choke him. “You believe I have neglected my _duties_?”

“Yes,” Drumknott says.

“And why tell me?” Vetinari asks. “Who is to say, Mr Drumknott, that you don’t come to some _unhappy_ end at the end of this conversation? Who is to say I don’t effect, in your disposal, some torture beyond your ability to measure?”

Drumknott stares up at him, and he feels the certainty settle in his chest, slowly sinking in. “It wouldn’t matter,” he says. “I needed to tell you because— Because it was _foolish_ , it was a mistake. Any mistake, even the smallest of them, can be your last: is that not what you’ve taught me, my lord?”

“And is that how you prioritise things, Mr Drumknott?” Vetinari asks softly. “My perfection, over your pain, over your life, even?”

“Ankh-Morpork’s perfection,” Drumknott corrects.

“Ah, I see,” Vetinari murmurs. “ _My_ perfection. It is crucial, Mr Drumknott, that I am viewed as _infallible_ , or as close to infallible as can be accomplished, throughout the city.”

“Yes, sir,” Drumknott agrees.

“But if you _ever_ believe I have erred again,” Vetinari whispers, and his hands are sliding over Drumknott’s shirtfront, unbuttoning his waistcoat and shoving his cravat aside, and Drumknott gasps in a breath, “I should like for you to tell me. Just like so. Without this pageantry of resignation.”

“Pageantry, my lord?” Drumknott asks weakly, and Vetinari’s fingers move quicker over the buttons on his shirt, and Drumknott is _dizzy_ , his anger, his indignation, distant, confused memories as they’re overwritten in favour of lust.

“Pageantry, Drumknott,” Vetinari says. “I would no sooner allow you to resign, at this juncture, than I would allow you to become a mime.”

“Oh,” Drumknott says. “Are you going to kill me, my lord?”

“I wasn’t planning to, no,” Vetinari says, and he cups Drumknott hard through his trousers, makes him gasp and arch: his hand whips out, grasping at Vetinari’s shoulder to keep himself balanced as he leans forward on the desk, his shirt open, and he can feel Vetinari’s robe against his bare skin as he leans in closer, his breath against the side of Drumknott’s temple, and Drumknott _moans_ , presses his face against Vetinari’s chest— “Grind yourself down,” Vetinari murmurs in his ear, and then drags his teeth over the shell of it, and Drumknott heaves in a gasp. His head rushes as blood flows abruptly downward, and it is no easy task to make his mouth work.

“I feel—” he gasps out even as he obeys, “that my— that I should render my message about… About my being a distraction, _ungh,_ somewhat null, if I should now let myself—”

“Shut up, Drumknott,” Vetinari says, and bites at the side of Drumknott’s neck. The noise Drumknott lets out is desperate, high and sharp, and he grips tightly at the Patrician’s body, drags himself closer, his heels hooked about the backs of Vetinari’s thighs. Vetinari doesn’t seem to mind, pressing the heel of his hand more solidly against the base of his member in his trousers, and Drumknott’s vision is _white_ , his eyes are squeezed so tightly shut.

Vetinari’s teeth aren’t digging in enough to leave a mark, Drumknott doesn’t think, but the pressure makes his head spin, and the slight dig of pain makes him keen. “I don’t believe,” Vetinari murmurs, his voice a rumble, “I’ve ever been so _pleased_ with a personal clerk.”

“You fl— _sir—!"_ Vetinari _is_ biting down now: he’s leaned in closer, to the very base of Drumknott’s neck, and his teeth dig in, the pain white hot and striking, and he’s so hard so quickly he thinks he might _cry_ , and does his best to distract himself by gripping more tightly at Vetinari’s shoulders, at his back, at the fabric of his robe. “You’re going to leave a mark, you’re g—”

Vetinari shifts his mouth, slightly higher, and he does it again, does it _again_ , and Drumknott’s skin is so hot now that he can scarcely stand it, his breaths coming in so hard and fast that he feels light-headed, and the hand that isn’t pressed tightly to his crotch is digging into his hip.

Vetinari _squeezes_ , and Drumknott keens, grasping so tightly at the Patrician he worries, even as he does it, that _he_ would leave bruises were it not for the armoured steel-silk of his waistcoat beneath the robes, and Drumknott is falling to pieces as he spends, feeling faint, his sensation narrowed down to the hand between his legs and the teeth at his neck, and he’s—

He realizes, a minute or so later, perhaps two, that he is still wrapped bodily around the Patrician, his face pressed hard against the other man’s chest, and he leans slowly back, unhooking his legs from around Vetinari’s.

Vetinari is looking down at him, his head tilted slightly to the side, thoughtful.

“You are, of course, quite right,” he says evenly, as if he hasn’t just reduced Drumknott to quivering jelly. His fingers trail over Drumknott’s neck, making him inhale, and Drumknott knows without looking that his neck is a mess of bruises, because it _stings_ , and he sways slightly on the desk.

“About?” Drumknott asks, aware that he slurs the word slightly as he tries to convince his tongue to function.

“I should have told you,” Vetinari says, and his hand loosely grips Drumknott’s throat, making the constellation of new bruises ache beneath the skin, and Drumknott whimpers, his eyes fluttering shut. “It was good of you, Drumknott, to voice your concerns: you gratify me.”

Drumknott looks at him, blearily. He can feel the uncomfortable wetness in his trousers, doesn’t even want to think about how creased his suit is, what his hair must look like. “I would like,” he says, “to gratify you.”

Vetinari reaches out, and Drumknott watches dumbly as his fingers move to button back up his shirt front, beginning to clothe Drumknott once more. “You really wouldn’t mind if I had you killed?” Vetinari asks, as if it is a very intimate question: his voice is laden with a warmth Drumknott could almost convince himself, were he entirely deluded, is romantic. Drumknott’s own statement, it seems, is going ignored.

“Not if it was for the good of Ankh-Morpork,” Drumknott says. “I would do the same.”

Vetinari smiles, and his fingers are gentle as they draw Drumknott’s cravat into place, knotting it tightly enough that his neck stings under it. Drumknott exhales, and Vetinari’s gaze is—

 _Soft_.

Soft, he could convince himself, the sort of soft gaze he’s only seen Vetinari aim at Wuffles, or at the letters he receives from his aunt, and Drumknott feels his own mouth, dry as a desert, feels himself swallow.

“Do you mean that?” Vetinari asks.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Very good, Drumknott,” Vetinari says.

“You left marks.”

“Yes.”

“I must change.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you—” Drumknott stops. “I was… I was correct? In my assertions?”

“In every one.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

Drumknott drags himself to the edge of the desk, but his knees are unsteady, his thighs still soft, and he stumbles slightly, falling against Vetinari’s chest. Vetinari doesn’t seem to mind, his arms winding about Drumknott’s waist, that they are chest to chest, and Vetinari’s mouth returns to its now-familiar place at his ear.

“What would it take, I wonder, to make you lose that temper of yours?” he asks, the question curiously intimate. Drumknott had never known, before this, that he could feel quite so many complicated feelings at once.

“You don’t want me to lose my temper, my lord.”

“On the contrary,” Vetinari replies. “I rather do. What would it take?”

“I don’t know.”

“We _must_ find out,” Vetinari whispers, and his lips touch to the side of Drumknott’s head. A kiss. It is a kiss, Drumknott thinks – a kiss, not a bite, not a drag of teeth, but a _kiss_. Vetinari kissed him. “Go, change. We have an appointment with Lord Fernleigh Joplin.”

“Yes, my lord,” Drumknott says dizzily, and he stumbles toward the door.

 

[1] Not that Drumknott has ever done this himself. He is of the belief that elastic bands should be kept to a particular administrative purpose, and to misuse them is not only _silly_ , but disrespectful to the office environment.

[2] Drumknott keeps all of his pyjama pockets (and the pockets of his dressing gown) prestocked with pencils and small notebooks. One never knows when one might need them.

[3] Most individuals on the Disc do not take even a casual approach to dental hygiene. Drumknott’s is obsessive, and neatly focused: as a child, he had become distinctly anxious at the premise of some tooth fairy peering into and examining the state of his teeth, in the same way many grandmothers become distinctly anxious at the premise of a visitor to their home, and thus feel compelled to clean every surface imaginable, including (and especially) those that no visitor will ever see.

[4] Drumknott, of course, neatly sews a label in each of his work suits, which are identical.

[5] Canderson’s Bakery produce a puff pastry containing a thick banana paste and decorated with banana chips. These pastries are resoundingly unpopular, but have a very passionate (and, ahem, physically strong) supporter in the Librarian.

[6] To _Drumknott_ it looks thoughtful. To most individuals in Ankh-Morpork, the Patrician’s face would seem to be his usual mask.

[7] Since joining the Patrician’s office, Drumknott has studied in great detail the floorplans of most of the major guilds and public buildings. One never knows.

[8] Contrasted with Lord Vetinari, even the most well-trained Assassin would seem loud and clumsy, and this figure was not at all an Assassin, well-trained or otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). Requests always open. Please hit me up on Dreamwidth or Discord if you'd like to talk more about this ship, honestly - I'm really excited about it and would love to find some other shippers. 
> 
> I run a [Discworld Comm](https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/), and there's also [a Discord right here.](https://discord.gg/b8Z3ThH)


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